print previewback HOLLI CARRELL
Two Women
Two women rise into my sight
through wisps of mist.
It is morning
here and there, and nothing interrupts
two figures
identical in every way
with a broad, hollow stone
planted between them.
It does not smell
of sacrifice, spit goulash or stew.
The ocean bumbles
below us, drugged;
and the women bend forward,
only the tremor
of their eyes—
so gray they could be violet—
telling me they’re alive;
and a ringing
sound from behind their lips.
They are ageless;
they are so slender
they might be boys.
Their dark skirts pulse
and mottled black moths
flutter out.
An arm stretch away,
I can feel the heat
from their foreheads,
see their fingernails
curl and grow
at an astonishing rate;
and then I notice the taut fiber,
like a violin string,
connecting both women
and pierced through
their chins.
They cannot speak
or scream or turn away.
It is a cruel marriage.
Their blouses are stained
with the rust
of yesterday’s blood:
they have learned
to wear it like jewelry. 
Two Women