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.