by Emma Francois

You named a ladybug Jumbo Shrimp and carried her on your palm until she bit you at the cafeteria. When I told you a splinter in my sole kept me up all night you removed my sock. Pinched it out with two fingers. I’ve always said you can do anything. As a little sister you set your own lullaby machine. Fashioned flashlights out of water bottles. Guitars of air. When I slip into your bed after a nightmare you smell like tuberose—not the flower you’re named for, Linnaea borealis—wild and gentle, breezy, though not easily swayed.