Unlike Siamese twins separated at birth,
there should be no physical tie between us,
no shared arteries, blood on the snow from one
is not blood on the snow from the other.
You throw off the light of a man who has tried
to solve himself against the bodies of many women.
I cast the shadow of a woman who
has used her body to bandage wounds.
You have the eyes of a man who leaves his truth
on the dresser and his history on the bed.
Back to back I am drugged with the leftover
chemicals of your lovers.
Unlike Siamese twins, separated at birth
there should be no pact between us,
but the light across the ceiling, the light across your shoulders,
the half drawn blinds tell a different story
of bitter amputation and putrid sheets,
the slow grind of granite against river rock.
We were never meant to be conjoined and still survive.
(Originally published in "Wicked Alice")
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