Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney

The first three of a work in progress called TWINS

They always said that they were really twins.
they'd had work done, a lot perhaps so much
their kinship was skin-deep. So to their sins
add either lies or incest. They would touch

each other's faces, delicate and slow
and breathless as in wonder, that no glass
was there between them. And would blow
checking for mirror. Sudden looks would pass

between them and the stroking move to thighs
or breasts, and fingers be replaced by lips
or lashes. Sometimes memory defies
the likely, sends us off on little trips

to surreal sexy truth that makes us wet
squirm in our chair at what we can't forget.

Imagine childhoods for them, in a room
they shared, and watched each other lie in bed,
each with unspoken truths inside that loom
so massive, each one fears to burst their head

with silence, to the night where one will crack
and say - what? - that they want to be a girl,
or they're in love. Hoping the other's back
is turned because asleep, so they can curl

against it, never having to say more,
nor even sob again, try to erase
what was just said. but what they think a snore
at first is 'yes - me too'. The other's face

now looking at them and they're asking how
the fuck they'll do what has to happen now.

People will do all that they have to do
to get the things they want. Suck cocks, pull knives
on johns, or deal in drugs. I know it's true
that there'd been awful things in their young lives,

those two, so soft, pink, blonde and innocent,
Smiling they'd wiped all clean. You'll do for love
things you'd not do in war and not resent
your love, and lick hands clean, and so remove

even the memory, and stroke and kiss
and fuck to keep all hint of darkness cleansed
Over again. There's something sad in this
Perhaps. It almost seemed as if they'd flensed

all of themselves away save love and trust
and lazy sunday evening icecream lust.

There will be at least one or two more of this.
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