My Twin Brother: Or, Coming Out

He was the one with all the girls. He brought them
home in droves and they lay on the bed,
their quiet minds like lungs, emptying and filling.

At school, they taught me how to live like him,
how to wear his one-size-fits-all skin
and tack it up mawkishly along my spine.

So, one evening, as the darkness was spinning
its slow, intricate web over the street,
I slit his throat. The sandbag of his body

spilled across the sheets, moonlit and handsome.
And I didn’t cry; I wept. Wind-blown clouds
witnessed mutely as I lugged him down the stairs,

wincing as the loose head smacked on each step.
Once I had him out the door, I rapped
on every house and tore the quiet night in two.

Like birds flapping in a thicket the latches
cluttered up, hinges swung apart, to reveal
the colophon of me, standing right-angled

to his body like a streetlamp,
the long road stretching out behind,
whole lives opening in my eyes.

Seán Hewitt was born in Warrington, UK, in 1990, and read English at Girton College, Cambridge. His poetry has been published in magazines including Poetry, The Manchester Review, Agenda, The SHOp, and Northwords Now, amongst others. In 2011, he won the Rima Alamuddin Prize. His website is at www.seanehewitt.com, and he tweets@seanehewitt