Erika Lloyd

Erika.lloyd@maconstate.edu

The Other

The other gets dressed

every morning with uplifted pomp.
Her Rapunzel-like hair
gleams with the sunshine
pouring out of the window.
She does everything in the open.
She twirls and flirts and twists
with her strands of hair.

The sunshine plays against her,

Her lithe body dances, flits, and flies
creating odd hexagons and triangles
across the other’s face. Her toes,
like little doves, poke out of
the bottom of a white satin nightgown.
They are different from the pristine,
plush carpet floor, which is like
sand on a beach. This makes
The other look like a siren
calling to all who enter.

I get dressed every morning

with a different flair, an uneven
Jerk, a fall as I stumble, half awake
and last to rise. From my messy bed
the closed door creates a
long, obscene, dense shadow
that weighs heavy across my shoulders
Like a marionette I struggle into clothes,
to bend my awkward shape into a
pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt.

My grogginess hinders my movements;

my sluggish feet extend like the feet of an
inexperienced clown from my pajamas
parading around my room. My feet
poke fun at bears, bobby pins, and books
that litter the room, like a ringmaster
commands the attention of the crowd.
The carpet doesn’t look like clean sand.
Instead, it is as patchy as dirty river silt.

Looking around, it is hard to see how

the other and I are from the same womb.