dead man walking

each year this month marches on
day gives way to the next day
sun makes room for moon
and moon slides over for sun
time passes and i'd forget
except for her voice
so similar to mine i forget
she is not me and i am not her
reality sets in, sinking stone
that shatters the illusion of conjoined twins
we are not one, but two
two siblings separated by blood that ties

she sees him in places i walk right by
she holds pieces of him each night
at bedtime as almost grown men
bend to say goodnight to her
and my womb lies silent,
no song of his to sing to me in the early morning light

she can fathom his voice amidst
the den of noise from those who claim her as their own
she can fathom a look, a touch
that might fit well with graduation,
or birthdays, weddings or funerals
the month marches forward and she honors him
with memories and thoughts and
i forget what i do not remember

but am forever reminded
she is not me and i am not her
conjoined we can never be
despite the thickness of the blood

for she can see the dead man walking
and i am but a blind girl that forgets to look

fraud

as if I have the answers, they come
as if i, childless and barren, possess wisdom of old souls.
like grandmothers on porches swinging with the rhythmic voice of time
can offer tested principles of life that has flowed within and without
from my innermost places. no heart beat has ever
beat against my abdomen; there is no knowledge
that has been imparted that lets me answer life’s complexities.

and inside i’m tested and torn, ragged clothes not fit for the pauper’s son
if he had one. if we pulled the blinds back
i’d be exposed, poor and undone, like mismatched socks i am.
the landscaped front belies the disheveled rooms.
and still they come, driving by to admire what they perceive to be

and only i seem to see the truth
i am but a scared child, lost with no map
living off instinct.