The other
hangs--
the calf leather coin purse
slumped in the palm
of his hand; a bat
bloated by sunlight
itching and fidgeting
for its darkness; this fetus
falling out of my vagina
onto the tiles, the porcelain
coffin of the claw-foot,
the sticky, stained
toilet seat
--as if he were the one
born breathing. Still,
he stirs, old reflexes
dangling
at the end
of my nerves.
Sometimes,
the vestigial twin
presents in ambivalence:
sex organs
that are almost
obscene.
For others,
there is a duplication
of genius. Two origins,
a stem that is cleft,
the psyches twining...
the weed of personality.
And then
there is the burden,
Gemeo's curdled soul
and its imprisonment
waiting for
this body
to die.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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