ISSUE: Spring 2004
You don’t know the forest
of two minds bound by weeds
grown from one to the other,
the synapses like bees
cross-pollinating
our honeyed brain.
When my sister sings,
the bones of my skull are her resonance.
Your mind is a yeast packet,
unbroken, unrisen. Today
how often will you think: Price Check
and each time the thought will stall
with lonesomeness.
Yet you think my sister is a bulky hat
stitched to my head.
You, untethered, drift through life.
And we pity
you and the other self
you hide in your throat.
