Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney

Last two twins poems

One lived. One died. The trouble with disease
Is you can't plan. Their lives wholly the same
As they had made them. Friends would sometimes tease
Mockingly call one by the other's name.

When Death came calling, she had made her pick
Could not be fooled or told 'another day'.
And would not take both. One of them got sick
Sweated past thin. The other lived to say

'I had a sister once.' Her blonde hair white.
I sometimes wonder how she got to sleep
In what had been their bed, on that first night,
With none to dry her tears, how could she weep?

How learned, once doubled, to lead single life
Haunted by absence, that last surgeon's knife.

They'd dance together in a mirrored space.
Lit by a mirrorball, they'd multiply.
And wear strategic sequins on each face,
One on the left cheek, one above the eye.

Infinity must take them as they were
Nor be deceived. Identical and paired,
Spinning, they gazed in love. This would deter
most men, but if it didn't they just glared.

Sometimes they'd pick a body to dance round
Accessorized, somebody young cute raw
who drank too much. And sometimes such men found
themselves next morning interestingly sore

saw themselves mirrored in first light of day
buttplugged, trussed up, the blonde twins' tender prey.
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