When we head to Costco to pick out new shades of nail polish
for the upcoming school year, the employee suggests
Raspberry Ripple and Emerald Ebullience. We buy several bottles
of each and take turns driving while the other brushes
the colored liquid on in broad strokes in the car.
My brother is concentrating hard, his legs crossed in the short
denim skirt he picked out at the mall, tip of tongue protruding
from the corner of his mouth.
The cornfields angle away from us on both sides, dark golden
husks waving like fans in the wind. I know that when we get home,
my brother will practice his model walk in the kitchen,
hands on hips, nails painted a fresh coat of dark purple,
glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as I scrub
greasy black debris from the edges of the frying pan,
checking to make sure I’m watching.
I remember his childhood, how he went skateboarding
in baggy black pants and leather jackets and joked
with his friends about how the school’s only gay student
was a faggot. I think that maybe we are all just practicing,
and I wonder about all the time my brother wasted
back then on being someone else. But it’s a shame
when the one version of yourself you’re meant to be
is the version of yourself you always have to hide,
like the way my brother throws the high heels back in the closet
and smears off all the makeup with the palm of his hand
as soon as he hears our father’s car pull into the driveway.