I beat my brother with a badminton racket,

bouncing the frame off his calves

until he swings and strikes my temple

with a cricket bat.

                                        My shirt shoots red

so fast it can’t be real. Have I lost

too much? Mum says I need stitches, but

Dad says I got what I gave—I should’ve known my brother

likes a fight.

                                        Mum helps me change:

removes my stained pyjamas, blots blood

with a rag, cups my head

with ice to stop

the weeping.
Later, during morning Mass, I play Christ

speared and limp on the cross. Dressed as disciples,

my classmates cut me down, bind me

in linen and carry me to my tomb

behind the altar.

                                        They deviate

from scripture and drop me

head first onto the floor.

                                        When I rise

to show that sin has been wiped clean,

the blood is real.