Folly Beach, SC, 2001: Name Forgotten, PlanetOut Date
She had been a model, and was a twin, both
telephone psychics those days. What she said
was she’d like to put her hands in my hair,
and if I came, we’d spend the day on the beach,
which was right outside her door. Unsaid:
up the flight of wooden stairs, agoraphobia.
Floor-to-ceiling slat blinds pulled tight against
whatever windows led to water, interior dark
as a bar bathroom, Mission Impossible flickering
fire in our periphery. She was ten years older
than she’d said—maybe I wouldn’t notice—
which made her ten years older than me.
Unhappily, her sister seemed the better of the two,
but the phone rang and she disappeared into
the blackened hallway, light seeping through
the closed door’s imperfect contacts like a guiding
star. I could smell my twin’s skin. Another phone
rang and she, too, hurried off to another room
entirely. Their two shut doors were mirror
images, glowing. However much a minute,
they stayed gone so long I left, unable to hear
their advice on how to do better, be better, be.
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