Nine years old, you saw Chang and Eng
on the History Channel, and you stood on a chair
to get Mom’s sewing box off the top of the fridge.
We decided to do it at the hip.
We both wanted to be on the right
and I won nose goes.
Both of our shorts rolled down to our thighs—
I giggled we could see our penises—and you stuck
the needle in soap three times, and tied a scarf
over your mouth like a doctor. And your skin
where your waistband was printed
came to a point under the needle
like a Hershey’s Kiss inside out.
This might not work, you said, and I
said come on it was your idea.
It hurts, you said. You put a Band-Aid
where you had pricked yourself, and you
wouldn’t give the needle to me.