At the Mothers of Twins Club, 1984
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Each belly still a loose net
from the big stretch, we met
at eight in a church basement,
linoleum scuffed dull as we felt.

We sat in damp cloth chairs to talk
about how to settle and hold apart
fretful babies in a grocery cart
and still leave room for milk;

or to lie in bed some easy way
and nurse at midnight two tiny
mouths; then what to say
to the relentless query

(“No, one’s a spare—they break,”)
the pouts and sulks that the names
don’t rhyme, ploys to shake
off pinchers, pokers, strangers

who sport and grimace in our faces.
We flitted giddy, slap happy
to hear the others’ worst cases,
their whiny, bumper sticker misery—

Twins Are Two Much—turned plumb
witty on the round edge of exhaustion.
Our poached breasts had begun
their telltale pitch: Go home

or pop. Out in the parked car
my nether self sways in the dark
passenger seat, that familiar star
of silent address, habitual mark

for my inner narration, sister
in daily minutiae. She nods twice,
leans shoulder to my shoulder
so I feel between us a cell’s choice,

see everyone split, one of a pair,
double, identical ova tied
hair for hair to the very very
same on the other, louvered side.