By
Everything is two:
our Mother’s hands
– from the kitchen, the vegetable garden, from sewing two replacement buttons (not an exact match, but they would do)
two strong hands
– hoisting baskets of other peoples’ wet sheets, work taken in to feed her two boys
two soft hands
– cradling our spines, caressing our cheeks, stroking our hair when scraped knees brought hot tears
copious cloths, in piles of two,
barely enough to deal with the infinite mess of us two,
us two bodies, from hers
while from the newsprint beneath our tub
the faces of a couple look up,
oblivious to our impish majesties
our father pulls faces, pulling each ear and crossing his eyes
to the delight of us two
two brothers
I count to two,
I needn’t count more:
parents, mother’s hands, me and my brother, piles of folded laundry, two adults and two children, the tub holding the two of us
my brother’s two teeth
Us –
two, two of two
everything is two
we two among twos
everything is one
