My sister said you were an acrobat before I was born – somersaulted off the sofa, drank gin in a hot bath.
There were knitting needles and no wool. You were the only jumper.
Now I’m a parent older than you then, I can only imagine how it was, to stare down that double-barrelled shotgun, feel the kicking.
Wriggling reminders. Extra mouths and no money.
A tiny gravestone bears my twin’s name.
Is that why you called me Precious?
We’ve kept history swallowed. Are you scared truths will find wings in your raggedy breaths?
You say you’ll burn down this old folks’ home rather than keep on living, like this.
I, for one, believe you.