I used to hate my sister

I remember being told that revenge
would not make me happy.

I remember, you always took the good seat
in front of the TV and you’d only vacate
it if there was definitely nothing worth watching.
Then I’d sit in your warm patch
and pretend to enjoy Country File.

I remember, I used to imagine the milk
you slurped with your bran flakes
was not milk, but rather, it was bleach.

I remember, at the beach,
you always used to dunk
my head until sea water
sluiced through my sinuses.

But then, I remember, I was older
– we were both older –
and you were pretending to be a shark,
swimming towards me with one hand
on your forehead, a makeshift fin.
I don’t remember how
but I managed to grab your wrists.
You pulled your head out of the water
and just stared. You tried to retaliate
but you couldn’t. You looked at me,
half-familiar, as if I was a long lost brother
and this was the first time we had met.
The pleasure was overwhelming
as I baptised you again
and again under many different names.

From then on, I remember you started asking me
about girls and football and you called me Lil’ Bro.
I remember you let me borrow your tape of Cypress Hill.
I remember you let me have the good seat sometimes
and a democratic system was introduced to choose the channels.