My brother was political
and I was personal,
Science was his passion,
He was measured and sharp.
Neck-deep in disorder, and uncertain art
I was reckless and vague.
‘Mindless’ my dad thought aloud.
When I speak on political correctness passionately,
My brother charms us with his toothy laugh
and declares most Muslims are Jehadis.
While I write papers on body and gaze
He believes dress codes for women
would do them oodles of good
and save their species from violation.
It taints his honor still
when I, a thirty-year-old, get eve teased.
He believes my unwieldy flesh is to blame
(My droopy breasts and withered butts! !
He, a pulmonologist, prescribes a tread-mill walk,
“Have to lose 200 cals as a rule! ”
he jogs in his posh three-bed room flat every day)
He loves being in the main stream,
dreams of practicing abroad someday,
pities me who is trapped in a jungle lair
fit only for occasional male escapades.
He tells me how to save money,
how to live a healthy life,
spirals of smoke rings fogging my mind,
the broken bottles in my backyard,
synaesthetic memories of reefers
testify to my self abuse.
He lectures me on spirituality
that I believe in nothing,
and I am …
but guilt and grime
and a bundle of nerves
trying to unwind in chaotic poetry.