Rebecca Chamaa

The Youngest 

You were sixteen months old

when I arrived.

Forcing you out of first place

in mother’s lap.

Your boo-boos

and bottle often had to wait

for me to be shifted from one

arm to the other

or diaper changed.

I don’t recall those days

But you never forgot them;

the intruder.

When I was four and you five,

You would wake me from my nap

and tell me it was okay to play.

Our sitter would get angry,

but only at me.

Later you would tell on me

for every infraction of house rules

causing me to get grounded

over and over again.

Mother’s little spy.

Mother’s little helper.

Mother’s good little boy.

I was silent and younger

and had no clever means

to enter the war against you.

Even as an adult I watch you

never knowing when

you’ll decide to launch an attack

that leaves me

with splinters of sibling rivalry
protruding from my baby soft skin.