How she sulks this twin
Her hair matted, dull—
Her thin legs twisted.
She will not cooperate,
She is not to be trusted—
This failing other.
She is prone to cut and chop
At a whim.
How she bleeds – when will it end?
Her fingertips are dark morels,
Rooted in the dark, loamy soil of the forest floor.
They are mysterious shapes, aren’t they?
I cannot touch her.
The other is radiant—how she dips and swells—
Elusive fire at her core—
She holds an unknown nomenclature—
Eternal words I can only guess at,
Stragglers---they will not come easy or whole.
A simulacrum of the other, her hair is long and fibrous—
She is a being of light,
Her hands are ponds into which I gaze.
She is biting into a strawberry—freshly picked
And seeing the soft, white flesh puckered, tart
Full of possibilities.
The tiny seeds glistening—
Like looking at someone in the mirror
And not knowing what she would become.