I invent a tiny tube, a long and thin thing,

so thin you almost can’t see it but

a surgeon can see it, with their pupils needled under the bright lights of the operating room

and they can feel it ever-so-slightly between their trained and latexed fingers.

Here is how it works: one side of the tube is placed between my lips–

not a surgeon, I can’t really feel it, but I inhale and inhale and inhale

and I hear the doctor whisper, “What an invention, what a feat,” as the hissing in the room grows

louder, a light whistling accompaniment as they thread the other end into a hole in

my sister’s skull. I have practiced for this, holding my breath

since the CT scans, of course, all of us have, and the invention nudges itself through

the pink pillowed rows, “Excuse me, pardon me,”

very polite so as not to be noticed, a trait I was good at imparting onto

the tiny tube, why I was such a great inventor, another genetic thing,

and I am turning red, but I know if I keep trying

it will work, I have done all of the tests, I have gotten it all approved, I never miss a thing, we will collect

all the extra little bundles of cells

and we will put them in a petri dish to laugh at later, 

and I will say to my sister, I told you if I could take this from you, I would,

and I did, and aren’t we exhaling now.