Sometimes I’m the slattern
serving a dead rat to my sister.
At the bank I want the teller
to recognize me. Nobody knows
who I am. Who am I?
Knowing who you are
is impossible. We get a glimpse
and run screaming away.
Sometimes I’m longsuffering.
I live in the past. I was wonderful
for a few years.
My sister and I share a darkness,
a night so long that it covers us
both in a shroud.
A colorful shroud, warm,
on a winter day that will never