Separated by Birth

We huddled closely for nine months,

safe as pits in cherries. Then you were born.

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I untangled from blood

and umbilical cord in five minutes

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to follow your cries, but

what has birth offered us

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that could amount to all the months

your arm grazed my head,

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the dark red womb,

warmest room.

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Today I found you outside

in the changing weather, humming.

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Your eyes caught me and grew guarded,

unheeding of the irony

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that your chest cavity barely housed lungs

the first time I saw you. You still grow

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to make a watchdog of your body,

hoarding life like a tree.

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I’d have to cut you open to see the years

you’ve shoved inside the ring of five minutes.

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Let me follow your cries, again. Unlock

your voice box—that hidden heart of humming.

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Twin brother—the one I race upstairs

when the elevator’s down.

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Whom I beat in chess

when the internet’s out.

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(SECOND DRAFT, POSTED FIRST)

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