The Mistake

   Twin halves, one

            Waiting for a call
            The drawling patter
            Of the bodied voice
            The other an arched back
            Tight lips, serious, saying
            “it’s like we’re gay.”

            I need to tear myself apart
            In two halves so one can drink 
            From your milk
            And one can float aloof
            And count your change
            Over the shoulder of your sweater
            
            But flesh is stubborn
            Running, seamless
            Even though the blueprint of you
            Is before me like a ghost.
           
            “We need to be ghosts,” you said              
            I can sign church hymns,
            And I’ll sing of your ghost,
            With your straight teeth
            And lips that open a door
                    

            Sitting on a breezy couch
            Drinking tap water from a mug
            Two incestuous ghosts, we are
            And you say: you’re not just my brother,
            you’re my fucking twin
          

            You say: I cried all weekend
            Listening to Ghost in the Machine
            In the room with my brother’s boots
            And bare feet flat on rented tiles
             
            Men are always taking things from me
            You say, I'm black Irish
            Raped by Spaniards.

                      
            And you stretch me on the Bauhaus chair
            And send a current through my limbs
            Then say, “That was nothing…”
            That was nothing
            Sliding in your hand, edging
            Opening, peeling equal halves
            That should be sealed.