The clouds loomed straight down that morn on the track-heads.
We were always crying, in our spare lives, put-upon sisters,
Carrying two, small, black cases like dead skin on an animal.
We were better off from the rented parents batched in a mean.
Grownups, always aloud, cross-legged on their stern seats,
Heads bobbing-up and down like snakes in a still sea; biting
Words as they cursed us. We are inseparable as two cork dolls;
We slipped through a keyhole passage and inched into the shadows,
Our fingers cold and red from the solitude. We read from the good book.
Our staunch stone eyes stared for a passage, beyond an inconstant
Life. A place where children twirl like colored tops and gallop on
Merry-go-round horses. But in this sunless air, our fingers pointed to a
Blackness. Our parents, two warped shadows came searching in dark repose;
Their shapes long, dull to a pigment of thorns. We kicked and fought,
They tried to shut our mouth-holes, we screamed. The sky clouded over as
If it were out of breath; our faces whitened to a sheet. The blue eyes of
Authority comforted. The shine of this small thing was sweet in our hearts;
We hardly knew ourselves. Life now had a good smell, we are no longer owned.
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