When You’re 9, You Call Yourself Destiny’s Grandchild

but your brother’s not laughing. Isn’t
that a mess?
Every member that’s ever
had the privilege of being a child of
destiny now my mothers, now a testament
to me, so
I’m not gon’ stop.
And I’m not enough of a boy bouncing
around this house wondering why DC’s
not top ten on MTV today. Wondering
why nobody understands the brilliance
this week. Wondering why my brother
can’t stand me
trying to get my groove.
We used to ride or die until loving girly
songs was about loving myself and he
only watched to see the exposed navels
in the Tina Knowles original crop tops
housing those sacred bodies. His puberty,
his adamant manhood
ready for this jelly.
And all my writhing body could conjure
was this learned necessity to
lose my breath,
all run away
stayed at home alone and lonely.
And here comes the queen knowing
girl, I can tell you’ve been cryin’.
But he’s my brother and that’s more eternal
than me folding this body in half, promising
I don’t think they can handle this.
Were my mothers talking about you
good for nothin’ type of brother
but actually my kin, my everything, my
guide telling me
no, no, no, no, no, when it’s really
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
I learned a love in quiet headphone, lonely
bedroom dance. Still wondering
why the sudden change?
How come we never stopped being second-
hand progeny of destiny, destiny of jaded
song kinship, kinship of perpetual conflict?