A glance over my shoulder,
A blurred image appears
Of the angry maid when I told her
With pouting lips and tears,
That my pushbike was took once more
By brothers just to tease,
And because my legs were far too slow,
They vanished behind the trees.
Then the nurse, gripping two red ears,
Brought the culprits to book;
Punished to corners; avenging tears
At the smugness in my looks.
I asked for sisters; they gave me none;
Two were boys, and I was one.
Another glance into the past;
My sister is born a little boy.
The new arrival is my mother’s last;
The one who will claim my toys.
Still, I dressed him in cotton frocks,
And called him Mary Anne;
Put ribbons in his curly locks,
And transformed the little man.
When I saw it was to no avail,
They still referred to him as “he”,
I let him be that little male,
That he was meant to be.
I asked for sisters; they gave me none;
Three were boys, and I was one.
The present now gently unfolds,
Clearer than the rest.
The boys have grown to tall men, bold,
The older have flown the nest.
Often, during winter days,
When Yuletide fires burn,
Each brother to our hearth returns,
And tells their stories in turn.
“Mary Anne” has never known
I called him by that name,
He trims his whiskers; his beard is grown;
“Mary Anne” lost in the game
I wanted sisters; I needed none,
We are four, and we are one.
