The Split

She'd start the fires under the bed.

I'd put them out.

She'd take the broom stick and rape all the little girls.

I'd pull them aside, stroke their cheeks, and comfort them.

—How they would cry.

Brit would fight the German soldiers.

She'd crouch by the banister waiting for them

when I was too scared.

And sometimes, she would push me farther into the back woods than I wanted to go

But I was glad she did.

She was mean and she liked it.

She'd take off her clothes and dance in front of the mirror and she'd say things and she'd swear.

She'd laugh at the crucifix, turn him upside down and watch him hang.

And she'd unhinge that piece of metal cloth between his legs

and run when she heard somebody coming

leaving me.

Mean as she was, I miss her.

Only twice have I heard her laugh since then.

Once, lying on my back in a yellow field,

I heard something that sounded like me in the back of my head

but it was Brit,

and just now, making love with you, it's hard to tell you

but I heard her laugh.

II.

It began as a fear.

There was something, not me, in the room.

And translated into a dumbfounding

forgetfulness

that stopped me on the street

puzzling

over what year it was, what month.

I began to watch my feet carefully.

Nevertheless, I suffered

accidents.

The bread knife sliced my thumb

repeatedly

the water glass shattered on the kitchen floor

and in its breaking there was a low laugh.

Looking up, I saw no one

but felt the old cat stretch inside me

feigning indifference.

Marie, I'd hear in a crowd, Marie

the air so thick with ghosts it was hard

breathing.

One afternoon, the trucks were humming like vacuum cleaners

in the rain.

It was impossibly lonely,

No one but me there:

I called out Brit, the city is burning,

Brit, the soldiers are coming

and she laughed so sudden and loud I turned

and saw her for one second

all insolent grace, pretending

she wasn't loving me.

Source: 1988