Once there were two girls. There were two girls with one body. Boys, there were two girls with two heads and one body. There were two girls and each had an I but always they’re they. Every boy stares at the girls. Every boy wants to know which girl feels which poke. Boys, if you could blindfold the girls you would blindfold. You would slice down their undershirt splitting the ribbon rosette. You would kissmark their torso: stroking their fingered loins.

Every boy has a hunch. These girls are not born girls. No mothers. These girls were lost along the way.

They are half present. Not seduced.


[.  .  .]


Sewn together the babes grow to girls.

They grow as charmed girls grow. They are lithe
from neck down: willowy. Parts in agreement.

The only thing that splits them is a fault.

In time a thatch is born between them. An itch: the sea
comes through. The other’s twitching hand is slapped away.