Kimberly Glanzman
all the stories about twins are about us
and every story lies in wait.
you and me: dolls with lungs.
father raised us onto the mantel,
screwed our feet in place,
our lips painted closed. my hair:
bone straight, your knees: unscraped.
we were never young, I suppose.
among the scent of paper, we traced,
we tracked, we chased our tales.
we failed to find the forest path.
in the story, brother
and sister eat gumdrops
off the walls, but our house:
cricket song and hunger. our heartbeats
and the oven – so very small.
every page has weight.
the moon rose the size of our horizon
until it hung above us the size of my thumb
and I squeezed it between my palms.
just once, I wish it might have exploded
like a plum, burned my tongue, sung
brighter on the inside, or tumbled
down the gutters, a storm
of stony breadcrumbs.
the forest hid the forest.
the witch cackled and crackled
as she burned. I peeled the flesh
from her armbone, sharpened it
into a lockpick against the fireplace brick,
freed you. the front door lumbered open
in the hot dark; splinters threaded my feet.
her spell still held me but you crossed
the threshold first and let go my grip.
I hacked my hair off at the chin.
I tore my dress and peeled my skin.
the oven yawned behind me.
I climbed in.
you and me: dolls with lungs.
father raised us onto the mantel,
screwed our feet in place,
our lips painted closed. my hair:
bone straight, your knees: unscraped.
we were never young, I suppose.
among the scent of paper, we traced,
we tracked, we chased our tales.
we failed to find the forest path.
in the story, brother
and sister eat gumdrops
off the walls, but our house:
cricket song and hunger. our heartbeats
and the oven – so very small.
every page has weight.
the moon rose the size of our horizon
until it hung above us the size of my thumb
and I squeezed it between my palms.
just once, I wish it might have exploded
like a plum, burned my tongue, sung
brighter on the inside, or tumbled
down the gutters, a storm
of stony breadcrumbs.
the forest hid the forest.
the witch cackled and crackled
as she burned. I peeled the flesh
from her armbone, sharpened it
into a lockpick against the fireplace brick,
freed you. the front door lumbered open
in the hot dark; splinters threaded my feet.
her spell still held me but you crossed
the threshold first and let go my grip.
I hacked my hair off at the chin.
I tore my dress and peeled my skin.
the oven yawned behind me.
I climbed in.
Biography
Kimberly Glanzman (she/her) has work published in or forthcoming from Harpur Palate, Iron Horse, Electric Lit, Puerto del Sol, and perhappened, among others. She writes words in various shapes and sizes, which you can find on her website kimberlyglanzman.com or by following her on Twitter @glanzman_k.
