When hair first grew between my thighs
I'd tuck my genitals out of sight
And take a look in the full-length mirror
At Sis, my twin, her long hair wound up
In shawl or turban.
We'd not been apart
She left home shortly after
For Egypt- where she lifts the dead
Gently out of their holes in the earth
And drinks expresso, molto expresso,
And lives on her nerves.
She takes less shit
Than I will and her messages
Are sharp and piney.
I haven't affected
The full-length mirror much since she split.
But when I do I notice how
The lines are softening. However priapic
Or cunnilingual we are, we tend
To the ending of sex. Old men and women:
Dress 'em in jim-jams, mix 'em together,
Guess which is which.
But there's this as well;
The older I get, the closer I get
To her shamelessness, to her spit-cat wit.
Polish the timber and shine up the handles-
My scapegrace sister is coming home.
This also sort of relates to today's first post. I've posted it before, but that was back in the beginning before anyone- but anyone- was reading me.