They move like twins, the Siamese
sliced neatly from the butcher's block.
Through corridors called house
and home, burrowers
make meanings for themselves
between themselves with fierceness even
children know.

The French say paramour,
clearly derived, sex par
amour. It's livery
I have no patience for:
servant clothes, feudal lords...
As if in grade school. Scents
of boots, coats, boatlike mops
twisted in locked closets,
ammonia smells and paint.

A child chants prayer wheels,
coupled with another, grasped
by arms, eyes closed, spun
faster, faster. Buddy system,
chained in two.
Who loves, who holds you there? One
more turn before
she begs release, the blacktop voices
shrieking, in their new white shoes.

                  First rate, he said, first rate
                  commodity, hair like yours
                  so thick you might forget
                  you accepted the apology...

First more than one,
then less, then
never sure, hand to hand.
A rose behind the ear,
between your teeth, your place in line
behind the tall girl, boy
who pulls her ponytail, whispers
near her ear, inside
the way shell rushes sea by drum and bone,

Do you like me? Do you like me now?
Unattached, the other half,
a story you make up yourself

some childhood joke, the body prize and tool.


Io and the Flies

Memories?

By the kindling twigs, I left
my black dress. A metaphor.
I meant to raise myself to some height
and look down upon them both.

Scandal, she said.

I couldn't put a finger on that either,
our desires to steal.
I ran up and down as she grabbed
what of me she could hold. A god's words
made stripes on my flanks.
We cannot relieve you
of sadness. What you've done.

Tempted?

Don't kid yourself. Something,
what was it? I can't
think of exile, of death
right now, my time
time without anyone.
I lay my head down.
If the air is frozen,
then I'm trying to tell you.
I'll find it.
Hear the adagio,
their wings?



Contents

 Valerie

 Duff