Gospel of the Drowned Twin
for C.V.A.Dear brother, how many times have you wanted
to return to the plate glass
window, to open the door for the delivery,
let our mother continue with my bath?
I remember the knock, the bell,
Mother wiping her hands
on her blue dress. How you whined
a siren, an engine with your toy
trucks and trains, knocked their metal
bodies into a circle of wooden blocks. Listen—
the pipes continue to hum though the house
has been razed to dirt. Each time
you unwrap your Ivory or Safeguard,
our mother is filling the tub again,
scrubs my rounded back. I have not learned
the words to make you understand—I am still
a child, still poking a bubble of soap,
still slipping further below the water ring.
When Mother returned to the bath, and you
heard the crash of shampoo bottles,
and the tub flowed into the hall,
did you believe
you dreamed me dead?
That the summer you nearly drowned
at the pool, it was me that split
from your side and sank to the bottom
grate and you that crashed through
the light, gasping, breathing?