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Ivie Twombley
1884-1913

Lottie Gordon and me were always together.
Joined at the hip, most folks would say;
You never met two ladies quite like us.
If you had known Lottie and Ivie,
The two of us at age 21,
If you had gotten to know us for our real selves;
Wild bachelorettes in french garters, 
Roaming the Quaker streets and alleys,
Of Greenleaf, Philadelphia and Bailey,
Seeking out young mammon, and innocent kisses,
As we did quite regularly in 1905,
Why, you would have summoned our parents!
And the Elders of the Friends Church to boot!
Lottie and me were soulful sisters, 
And best friends, especially in the snaring arts,
Trapping both wild men and civilized beasts alike!
It didn’t seem to matter one way or the other really,
Not after what happened to Roscoe.
We all knew someone murdered him.
As we both knew everyone hated him.
My Lottie, she never recovered from losing that man.
It seared my soul to see that girl so broken-hearted.
…I think of her all the time, even now in death.
She’s buried across Citrus Road in Clark Cemetery,
Over there by the old toppled stones,
And the high, giraffe-like, desert palms…
…The earth moves, my friends.
It moves without ceasing, without slowing,
We dead people can feel it rumble and grind and twist,
Rumble like an old machine in winter...
… I met my demise at age 29.
I died like Lottie,
Drowning helplessly, 
Without being in the water.
And that is that.

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