AND YOU HOPE SHE’LL SING
patti’s knees, by judy linn.
This made me think of you, Aumaine.
One Victorian folding screen in three parts, one mauve umbrella with Lagerfeld on the handle, eight blessed candles from the witches, a black lacquered ice bucket with no ice. Headscarf, china girl.
Over unpolished floorboards, the twins pull against each other in their sleep. They are shapeshifters on a thin red string. They are bourne of the same egg. But what is this egg, hovering god-like above their heads?
Mother, Other, flawless orb, teach containment. Teach myriad. Allow one last stockinged slide before twenty two lit and a wish: split the selves and begin again.
my mother said
If you want to die a little I will let you and love you still. I’ve seen far simpler minds on a downhill slide, and anyway, I’ll come toss silver coins at your feet no matter which trick you choose. Listen—somewhere a blues band is bringing down the house and somewhere else, the ferris wheel spins all night. Bring your broken baby dolls and I’ve got my false eyelashes. The best show is the one which never ends.