Identical Read Online Free PDF Page B

in mutual circles.
    He draws in a long, deep lungful.
    I move a little closer, like I can’t quite
    reach the joint. “Since we’re sharing
    a hooter, can we, like, share names?”
    The name’s Ty. I know who you are.
    I saw you on television tonight.
    If he says my mom is hot, I’ll kill him.
    “Jeez, man. Did everybody just happen
    to watch the fucking news tonight?”
    What? Did I say something wrong?
    Now he scoots closer. Looks into my
    eyes. Should I apologize?

The Guy Knows How
    To apologize, for sure. He reaches
    across the short distance between us,
    pulls me right into him, kisses me
    with unexpected hunger. In the
    time
    it takes me to react to that, decide
    whether or not to invite more,
    he already has my top button
    unbuttoned. His hands want
    to go
    under the fabric, insist on it,
    in fact. I should say no. Need
    to say no. “W-wait,” I try,
    but no little bit of me wants
    to stop
    and Ty intuits all of that. He
    doesn’t stop, and I don’t try
    to make him. And it isn’t long
    before
    I throw every ounce of caution
    to the nonexistent wind. With only
    a fleeting thought of Mick,
    I give
    in to this insane desire to know
    this not-quite-stranger in the most
    intimate way. And so, I sacrifice
    my inner child, give
    myself away.

Kaeleigh
    My Inner Child
    Is sobbing, crying for her mother
    to please, please come home, stay.
    But she is already leaving, well before
    dawn, as if to spend any more
    time
    here might chip her thin veneer.
    Her footsteps fall subtly in the hallway,
    trailed by Daddy’s heavy tread
    and garbled entreaty not
    to go.
    The front door shuts emphatically.
    I tense, count his paces. Twenty to his
    own bed, twelve to mine. One, two.
    Three, four. Wordlessly, I beg him not
    to stop.
    Five, six. Seven, eight. Please,
    go back to bed. Nine, ten. Eleven,
    twelve. Pause. The knob turns. Quick,
    before
    he can open my door, I scrunch my
    eyes, will my breathing to slow.
    He steps inside, creeps to my bed.
    I give
    a silent prayer that he’ll believe
    I’m asleep, take pity, leave me
    to my feigned dreams, all
    the while preparing to give
    myself away.

Daddy Strokes My Cheek
    His touch is soft as a dandelion,
    ready to release its spores.
    I feel his eyes trace my silhouette,
    steel myself against what will
    come next. But the quilt doesn’t move.
    His lips brush my forehead.
    You’re so much like her, he whispers.
    Why can’t I just take it all back?
    He crumbles on the carpet beside
    my bed. In the growing light,
    I slit open my eyes, watch his face
    fall into his hands. Tears stream
    through the cracks between
    his fingers. Why can’t I take it back?
    Will you ever be able to forgive me?
    Nobody answers. Not her. Not me.
    Before long, Daddy’s breathing
    evens, and when he starts to snore
    I slide out from under the blankets,
    into chill, Turkey-tainted air; tiptoe
    past his sleeping form. Away.

Not a Creature Is Stirring
    In the house or out, as I slide open the door,
    step out into the crisp Saturday morning,
    biting back sudden teeth chatter.
    The entire neighborhood seems asleep,
    not a single early-morning mower in sight.
    But smoke trails zigzagging from chimneys
    belie the idea that I’m completely alone.
    Someone’s awake, despite the fact that the sun
    has barely risen. I’ll be early to work.
    Usually I ride my bike the mile or so to
    the Lutheran home. Today I think I’ll walk,
    inhaling the clean of barely dawn.
    Showered, made-up, and blow-dried,
    my body is almost as scrubbed as
    the daybreak. So why do I feel dirty?

The Old Folks’ Home
    Has a new arrival, one who has
    thrown the place into an uproar.
    Seems William O’Connell
    is something of a ladies’ man.
    He’s tall, or once was, having
    lost a few inches to stoop.
    And, despite his years, he’s
    really quite handsome,
    in an aged, Irish way.
    Come over here, m’darlin’,
    he invites, to no one woman
    in particular. I’m thinking
    you’re in need of a bit of male
    companionship. His offer is