The Kidney

I would give up a kidney
for my sister faster than
call her on the phone. I’d give
her a kidney instead of
listening to her tell me
I’m going to hell. I’d give up
a kidney and enjoy the thought
of my flesh working in her
body — the body so like
my body — the body so
unlike my body. I’ve been
saying for years
I’d give her a kidney.
I never thought I’d have
to do it. I’d give up a kidney
for her so she could get
rid of that shriveled stone
she’s been carrying around
since we were toddlers.
I’d give up a kidney
and refuse to hear a thank you.
Pass, I’d say. Enjoy it, I’d say.
We could share a drink
— a light drink. I could
make that happen.
She would remind
me to see the best in people
and I would remind her
to see people for who
they are. We’d both get mad.
She’d say I’m going to hell. I’d agree
that she’s being a bitch.
We’d be different like twins are different:
the pair of us,
running around
completely separate.

Louise Robertson counts among her favorite publications, awards, and honors a jar of homemade pickles that she received for running a generative writing workshop as well as a couple Pushcart nominations and several Best of the Net nominations. Her work has also appeared in or is forthcoming at New Ohio Review, SoFloPoJo, SWWIM Every Day and many other journals.