[4]

Brown

There is thought,

art and music

inside me

that shows only on paper — or on the air,

if only you'd listen.

I work for what I have, and give you half without a thank you.

But I am brown

while you,

green and golden girl, cannot add two and two without your fingers,

or punctuate,

or make your own soup without a fuss.

Aunt June sat with you

for hours at a time

when you were little,

still bald,

still wrinkled,

still pink.

She must have loved you best because she gave you

her long legs,

sunny hair,

and sparkly eyes that catch the light and hold it there,

like the ocean in the summer.

She is summer all year, her name says so.

And she made you summer too with pools and sun

that shone against your

fat pink cheek.

Mom gave you her piano fingers but gave me her talent,

though my hands are

Grandma's working ones.

-I'm brown like her.

But still she most often looks over me to you,

already taller,

already curvy,

but lean,

and sunny,

like June.

You're spoiled.

You whine and cry — keep as much as you can for yourself,

and have since June gave you colours.

I am thought,

art and music

in a brown package.

You are an empty box, wrapped in shiny paper and a ribbon.

There are days when instead

_ of taking time to unwrap,

I'd rather trade.

Aimee Arsenault