I wrote this piece while I was caring for my identical twin brother, following major surgery. Nearly everything you may have heard about identical twins is true.
The pain of being is not mine, but
my brother's. He cries and howls the Midnight
down into uneasy drowse
as the daylight lifts his covers
over swelling clouds of hurt.
Breaking, I balm him a little,
while police sirens whistle over the outer darkness
on roads beyond the skies.
A man of visceral heart, he lies
in the shaded courtyards of our parallel lives,
waiting, anticipating new ways of living
in sun-hammered sandgrounds
and billowing, oaken uplands; finding,
no doubt, familias where no such genus dwells,
in either world.
This man of courage reaches towards
new remembrances, uttering sounds which soon
I will not hear, but feel
through vibrations in bone,
at home, a place brittle with unended finality,
stretched beneath fine rain showers.
Ahead, I see the beckoning loom of a northern light.