Two-tiered lenticular clouds hover
above the hot hole where my heart
lies in smoky darkness, thumping erratically
as stampeding zebras in the Serengeti,
confused by impending terror hidden
amid the morning mist.
Where is my twin, my twin heart, my own
Simon Peter standing side-by-side,
two ventricular paths pulsing upright, pumping
blue blood, eyes dilated, breath arrested,
chest heaving, surrounded, sword-ready
to sever Malchus’ ear within this humid garden?
Past denial, my twin has flown, has flown.
Old gold-crested crane whose lung-honking song
wing-slaps the air, rising, terrified of jagged jaws
lurking low-lying pools, cloud-shrouded depths.
His broad-thumbed heart mounts more
hopeful skies toward sun, toward sun.
Only twins who risk the vigil, who trill
a two-part harmony stay despite the threat
slavering to snag the weaker neck between us,
who stand back-to-back, rump-to–rump,
hoof-ready, head high, nostrils flared, dare…
dare like Aida, to wear blood-purpled loyal.