Conjoined Twins

In Pennsylvania, there are two sisters in their forties 
who declined surgery and have lived like light 
through a glass of water: perfectly transparent, 
containing each other. I wonder about traffic 
passing their street, the solitary drivers listening 
to sad songs on the radio, taking travel for granted. 

I think of the cold, buzzing windowpane 
of a jet over Nebraska on a sharp blue day; 
being the one who sees the plane's shadow 
move over yellow and green fields and being 
the one who is the shadow. Of a flag straining, 
taut as a sail in the wind, and the percussion 
of its grommets on the metal pole, of being both 
bell and bright symbol, reined in by a rope 
of breath and heartbeat, knowing nothing else. 

The doctors who are operating on two brothers 
just down the road from here will not separate them 
today, although they could. There is a long process 
involved, like understanding art, or forgiving yourself 
for something you never meant to do, but somehow had to 
anyway, something as inescapable as your own voice 
twinned with your best effort. With patience, most of us 
survive. Look how the afternoon proceeds 
quite well without you, one minute at a time, alone.

© Christine Potter