Carlee Klipsun
Brother
you said you don't remember any of it,
bitter cold beach days with uncle chris,
that time a stray dog showed up on our front porch,
the teenage babysitter who'd bring her own baby. that's okay,
brother, i'll drive you around in my dodge neon nostalgia,
point you towards candyland and connect four, the time
in high school you stopped the cheerleaders from beating me up,
that street corner you once sold drugs on. we won't talk about
the childhood monsters, the bathwater we shared
before brushing our wartime teeth, the fuzzy things
we're still finding words for. just know i'll always share
my sink with you, remind you of the nickelodeon laughter,
the swingset with yellow seats, the veiny currents you
scrubbed clean after the explosions; little brother,
look at how far you've come.
Bio
Carlee Klipsun is a disabled writer and artist from the Pacific Northwest now living in rural Georgia. Her previous written work has been published by Choeofpleirn Press and the Confluence Project's Voices of the River. Carlee spends her free time feeding raccoons and volunteering for her tribe, the Chinook Nation.