My Little Sister
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

teeters right on
the edge of an ornate fountain.
She'll catch them pollywogs, she damn sure will.

But just as she's about to scoop up
a school of them,
somehow she steps wrong and plops

right in the green, long-stagnant water.
Her head pops up fast, but even so
she's now coated

with a slimy film of green algae.
But worse, still, I,
or more precisely, my 9 year-old self,

points at her, laughing like some kind of you-know-what.
Oh, how she longs to dunk my head.
Give me a piece of my own medicine.

But then the tears come,
hot tears of embarrassment,
hot tears of shame,

down her cheeks falling,
even into the stagnant,
the stinking pool.

    Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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