I know where Peter Venkman is.
Naked, I tell my little brother in the bath.
He-Men float face down in bubbly waves.
His face is covered in blue ink from my pen.
Pink and warm,
glistening in low-light,
I tell him, He’s behind the fridge,
peeking out, but too far to reach.
Egon, Winston and Ray
float on the surface,
covered in soap bubbles,
staring at the bottom,
air escaping from joints,
necklines, and stomachs.
I push them all underwater,
watch them rise back slowly.
My brother whines about Peter, and his blue face.
He’s going to tell Dad. He says.
Tell Dad, I say. I don’t care.
I just thought you’d like to know.