They ask, of the two of us, who will die first or whether I would like to die before she does. We do everything five minutes apart. Birth, names, cars. One then the other. We grew that way —an inch up, then the other an inch over that—until I woke one day, five inches taller than she was —alone, just like that. It took six years for her to catch up. Me the dog with three legs, the goat in the rocks, a shy goose. Of course, I want to outlive her, get the last word in. I had a five- minute, five-inch lead and I still want to win. She will never forgive me for the legs, the rocks, or the holler of the goose.
Nipples jewelry pointing clothed Moisture skinned tighter loaded Banger barter swallow ready Heartbeat alley leaving heady Homeward darkness cooler roller Inside bedroom sheet-skin holler.
About the author:
Louise Robertson serves as the marketing director for Writers’ Block Poetry Night in Columbus, OH. She counts among her many publications, awards, and honors a jar of homemade pickles she received for running a workshop as well as a 2018 Pushcart nomination (Open: A Journal of Arts and Letters) and a 2018 Best of the Net nomination (Flypaper).