The first finback whale took an evolutionary leap onto land,
and the president was on TV,
shaking the whale’s fin,
all sleek and blubber.
All that was on a Tuesday.
On Wednesday, my parents adopted a small,
elderly Chinese man to be my little brother.
They set him up on a high chair and wrapped their arms around him.
He bowed his bald head and gurgled with joy.
My new brother ate all the meat in the freezer
and often swatted the flies in his room at night,
leaving his dead all over the floor.
I came home from school every day
and sat next to him.
I told him all the new things I’d learned.
I said, “the finback whale’s finally balanced on its new legs
and dances with wealthy women.
It wants to buy a gun, big like a house.”
My new brother swayed his body back and forth like an ocean,
remembering when, ages ago,
we swum beneath ice sheets,
before we too descended from the animal kingdom.
AMY ROA’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Quarterly West, The Antioch Review, and The North American Review. She lives and writes in Brooklyn, New York.