Beverly A. Jackson

From the betweenbrain
of heaven—honey-oozed
from a biscuited sky—
out of negative space
around oak leaf, in spider lace—
I reveal myself, unfurl, defog—
hair dripping, breasts
spangled with contradictions,
a dun-colored counterpart
tottering in circular glee,
drunk on freedom,
yearning for a name.

O what a sorry hostess you are!
Black in mood and deed
(gravel that by rights is mine),
your banquet table bare,
your guests lift empty flutes,
and not a chair for me. I join
the singing dogs, wolf howls
in chords progressed by blood
rememberings; my shadow self
eclipsed, unclaimed.

At bedtime, in the gloom,
drawn drapes and candle flutter,
you brush your hair before the mirror,
my hand a mime of every stroke,
body curved in your arched pose—
my eyes our eyes, my mouth our mouth
until at last, you find your twin—and turn
your smile, my ear, the whispered gift
of our shared name. A wind parts curtains
to a bowl of sky, moonlight poured,
pooled milk, morning butter on the way.

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