must be difficult

you call her sis

though you would undo her bra for her if you could.

it is always the same with boys like you, isn't it?

wanting only what men can have; 

your mouth, parted in a sigh,

like gusts of wind escaping half-closed windows,

marvelling at the way she tells you  

of diaz and dilla, walcott and wutang.

it is difficult I imagine, this deciding, 

between an apple and a pear,

wondering how the yellow would feel

against your skin. 

so you go on calling her sis

pretending the lies you tell 

don't weigh your tongue heavy,

overwhelming the sweetness of the apple
you once chose.