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Poem	Under my bowels, yellow with smoke, it waits. Under my eyes, those milk bunnies, it waits. It is waiting. It is waiting. Mr. Doppelganger. My brother. My spouse. Mr. Doppelganger. My enemy. My lover. When truth comes spilling out like peas it hangs up the phone. When the child is soothed and resting on the breast it is my other who swallows Lysol. When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress. It cries when I prick a potato. It cries when I kiss someone hello. It cries and cries and cries until I put on a painted mask and leer at Jesus in His passion. Then it giggles. It is a thumbscrew. Its hatred makes it clairvoyant. I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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