My daughter calls her brother a tweak.
It’s okay, I tell him, a tweak means
she thinks you’re really cool. Days later
she calls him a tweak for the umpteenth time.
Don’t call your brother a tweak I say. But mom,
he reminds, she’s saying she loves me.
In the driver’s seat I quiet, let the road
do the driving, lead me wherever
I’m supposed to go. I listen to their banter
in the backseat and feel my brain sharply
twisted and pulled in two directions.
I think I am being tweaked.