(i) quarantine
viruses divide,
travel down separate throats
the beginnings of strep
exploding like bottle rockets
in siamese veins.
mother weeps in the corner
while doctors wheeze
through their masks
silk scarves curl out
from between the twins’ lips
white blood cells
rushing to contaminate
the room from a single breath
airborne and rising.
(ii) lichtenberg figures
lightning fragments the twins’ senses,
brushes past their cheeks
like a gypsy moth
their irises flush blue,
colour sucked
into orbit, off-kilter
recalling the day they ate
ice cream from the same cone,
three scoops
of mint-chocolate chip -
sugar spiked their blood,
surfaced on blistered skin
like a burning filament
hemorrhaging electricity
forking the distance
on two heavy wings.
E.J. Pratt Poetry Prize Recipient