Two Women

Two women rise into my sight

through wisps of mist.

It is morning

here and there, and nothing interrupts

two figures

identical in every way

with a broad, hollow stone

planted between them.

It does not smell

of sacrifice, spit goulash or stew.

The ocean bumbles

below us, drugged;

and the women bend forward,

only the tremor

of their eyes—

so gray they could be violet—

telling me they’re alive;

and a ringing

sound from behind their lips.

They are ageless;

they are so slender

they might be boys.

Their dark skirts pulse

and mottled black moths

flutter out.

An arm stretch away,

I can feel the heat

from their foreheads,

see their fingernails

curl and grow

at an astonishing rate;

and then I notice the taut fiber,

like a violin string,

connecting both women

and pierced through

their chins.

They cannot speak

or scream or turn away.

It is a cruel marriage.

Their blouses are stained

with the rust

of yesterday’s blood:

they have learned

to wear it like jewelry.