I demand some
   other reason for my white camisole,

   other than the stoke of whim.

   My other, identical, entwined—
no anomalies in either
the needle in the twelfth week pierced

   my other’s chest,
instant potassium chloride induced, they claim

painless, end.  I’m the Singlton.  My other,

shriveled, our rhythm severed, but not
our mating.  I held

   the other body, dissolving
in my arms, then when forced,
released my grip, yet

   otherness lives with me in what
might have been: two of us,

and I might have been
   the other,

yet I’m the one who breathes,
from our conception, when we were both other
to the other,

   to the death I (alone) face coming.