If This Y Could Speak

I am the jaunty part of severed Siamese twins.
How motherly, the nun holding my everything
in her arms. How cruel, the one-way bus of music

spilling into my good ear & leaving its mute cloud
to pour out my bad one. They awarded me
the ear-trumpet, so I could hear the how’s & why’s

of your kind little sighs. Do I miss my half,
my copy, who twinned me & twined
down my spine? Yay & nay. Sometimes.

Yet, I don’t know one from one, the sign of sign.
Remind me, my face stares at dirt. Another
is pickled way inside the brine of night.

Hidden beneath me might simply be my double,
strung to a fig tree. But if you look closely,
just my tire swing, a dead yo-yo catching rain.

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