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My brother says it won’t hurt so I let his friend Joe put the needle in my arm. Even though Joe says there’s a chance I might if there’s an air bubble, I don’t die. The world goes fuzzy and Joni Mitchell sings about ice cream castles in the air on the record that skips. My hair twists into knots of clouds and my brother frees them his fingers a silver comb. I wake up even though I wasn’t sleeping and my brother and Joe are in each other’s arms and they wake and my brother makes me promise never to tell and I laugh and pretty soon we’re all laughing I turn to Joe and say, hit me up again, but Joe shakes his head and says, you don’t want to turn into me when you grow up, do you? I nod, edge closer to my brother and he puts his arm around me and tells me to squeeze my fist and the needle deep kisses me and Joe slaps my face but it doesn’t hurt and my brother’s crying and Joe shakes me I want to tell him to stop but the words are caught in the clouds and the ice cream castles melt in my hair as an ambulance siren sings a fairytale my brother wrote just for me.
About Roberta Beary
Roberta Beary grew up in Queens, New York and identifies as gender-fluid. Honors: Winner Bridport Prize for Poetry, Best Microfiction 2019 & 2021, Best Small Fictions 2020 & 2022. Their work is featured in The New York Times, Rattle Magazine, Atticus Review and other publications. A trauma survivor, they divide their time between USA and Ireland.
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