Twin (Poetry)

Sally, four, in flowered shorts and t-shirt,
squatting with a stick, her gaze intense
and focused on a space with nothing in it,
smiling now and nodding as the sun
turns the sheets to canvases, light sketching
the stillness of a breeze that doesn’t blow.

The garden path’s a sharp-edged concrete dazzle,
the earth beside it powdered, dispossessed
of moisture as she scratches by the lupins,
finds an ant’s nest. Frantic insects run
along their roofless tunnels, bent on salvage,
save the eggs, retrieve them — instinct-led.

Look! She jabs a finger at the action.
See the babies? Hers a knowing voice
addressing an invisible companion
at her side. She giggles, pulls a face
and drapes a chubby arm around a shoulder,
the gesture natural as she leans across.

Her mother watches from the kitchen window,
elbow-deep in soap suds, squints through steam,
and listens to the fractured conversation,
feels the weight inside her move again
and clutches hold. The dizzy air descending
in heavy folds, she sinks into a chair,

gasping at each squirming, live sensation,
strokes her belly, tells him to be still.
Whispers carry with the scent of flowers,
shadows flit, unrecognised, like birds
frightened off by reason’s flimsy scarecrow,
shivering, denying sight and sound.

Outside the window Sally sits with Jason,
sharing secrets as a sister should —
a chrysalis inside a safety match box —
explaining what she thinks he ought to know:
Where babies come from doesn’t really matter.
But where they go. She sighs and throws a stone.