Oct 27, 1993
There is an affinity I've lost
to time and space and distance from
the hills of the Midwest
where I had a twin.
I rang and swam with him like
two goldfish in a wineglass resonating
to a strike we could only hear
by pressing together.
but somewhere in between then and here
I've found myself alone, a
hummingbird in the wineglass thrashing
and beating already shattered walls.
I never knew him, or her. I would lie
to say I talked with him or even touched
her except in utero, except dangling in
an amniotic fluid where we said hello and
I love you and goodbye in the space of four months only.
Now there is a distance between us.
Every day I think to look for her, I
think to find him hiding somewhere for
me, to remind me, to join me.
I find myself only
looking through the people around me for
this particular one.