One (Sarah Crossan)

Art Class

God I hate being back,' Jon says,

yawning and battering a clot of grey clay

with a rolling pin until it is

flat.

His eyes are walnut brown and quiet.

His hair is shaved so tightly to his head

he could be in the army.

His hands are speckled in tiny tattoos-

stars that seem to twinkle as he moves

his fingers

through the clay.

'At least you get to see me every day,'

Yasmeen says huskily

and nips and tucks at her own clay piece

until it is a lopsided pot.

'I'm Tippi. This is Grace,' Tippi tells Jon,

talking for both of us.

But

I want to speak

for myself.

I want Jon to hear my voice,

though I sound identical to my sister.

And I want his eyes focused on me

as they are focused on Tippi:

still

and without the tiniest

hint of horror.