Another day spent
patrolling the box we’ve
nested ourselves in.
You take five steps
and I’m right behind you—
five steps, too.
We live in parallel.
Our inner solar system
of paradox and puzzle
the hemming membrane
that keeps everything out.
I strove to be the smaller one,
because everyone knows
the leader is liable.
When mother can’t not
look at us, she clutches
her chest in distress.
We are not the same,
but we wear each other’s name.
We sleep together in our girlhood bed,
legs dangling over the edge.
I awake in the night
to your tarnished lashes
blinking Morse code messages.
Other people don’t know
who they are.
We eat sandwiches
smaller than our palms
and take slow baby spoons
to the pudding.
Each day is another step back
to before we had history.