That you may have been small, gene. A tiny cross
of parental freeways. Little fragment of extended
tastes: likes, dislikes, hair color, eyes.
That our thrills could be found in the departure—
a woman with a face wearing full honesty—
and the winters pressing our earrings out
of our ears. It is only winter we have
to sort our inadequacies against the snow,
amber dress, gold ring—as teens
we blew invisible candles on plastic cakes,
fingertip to fingertip on the kitchen counter.
Had we both been planned? Our happening.
Our ways. The proteins of our limbs.
Why not braids or beehives? It would take forever
to find the differences in our faces. We know
our chemical halves, our sum totals. Here we are:
the organic impulses of each; white cursive
on a mirror: are we here.