1 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in
love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advan-
tage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys
have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to
take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every
shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your
heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The
sun shines down. It’s a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not
choose sides yet.
2 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road. Let’s
call them Jeff. And because the first Jeff is in front we’ll consider him
the older, and therefore responsible for lending money and the occa-
sional punch in the shoulder. World-wise, world-weary, and not his
mother’s favorite, this Jeff will always win when it all comes down to
fisticuffs. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t always all come down to
fisticuffs. Jeff is thinking about his brother down the winding road be-
hind him. He is thinking that if only he could cut him open and peel him
back and crawl inside this second skin, then he could relive that last mile
again: reborn, wild-eyed, free.
3 There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond
the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which Jeff you are. It
could have been so beautiful—you scout out the road ahead and I will
watch your back, how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy—
but each Jeff wants to be the other one. My name is Jeff and I’m tired
of looking at the back of your head. My name is Jeff and I’m tired of
seeing my hand me down clothes. Look, Jeff, I’m telling you, for the
last time, I mean it, etcetera. They are the same and they are not the
same. They are the same and they hate each other for it.
4 Your name is Jeff and somewhere up ahead of you your brother has
pulled to the side of the road and he is waiting for you with a lug wrench
clutched in his greasy fist. 0 how he loves you, darling boy. 0 how, like
always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep
next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around
you in an act of faith against the night. When he throws the wrench into
the air it will catch the light as it spins toward you. Look—it looks like
a star. You had expected something else, anything else, but the wrench
never reaches you. It hangs in the air like that, spinning in the air like
that. It’s beautiful.
5 Let’s say God in his High Heaven is hungry and has decided to make
himself some tuna fish sandwiches. He’s already finished making two
of them, on sourdough, before he realizes that the fish is bad. What is
he going to do with these sandwiches? They’re already made, but he
doesn’t want to eat them.
Let’s say the Devil is played by two men. We’ll call them Jeff. Dark
hair, green eyes, white teeth, pink tongues—they’re twins. The one on
the left has gone bad in the middle, and the other one on the left is about
to. As they wrestle, you can tell that they have forgotten about God, and
they are very hungry.
6 You are playing cards with three men named Jeff. Two of the Jeffs seem
somewhat familiar, but the Jeff across from you keeps staring at your
hands, your mouth, and you’re certain that you’ve never seen this Jeff
before. But he’s on your team, and you’re ahead, you’re winning big,
and yet the other Jeffs keep smiling at you like there’s no tomorrow.
They all have perfect teeth: white, square, clean, even. And, for some
reason, the lighting in the room makes their teeth seem closer than they
should be, as if each mouth was a place, a living room with pink carpet
and the window’s open. Come back from the window, Jefferson. Take off
those wet clothes and come over here, by the fire.
7 You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your
brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen
you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets
up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
Phone’s for you, Jeff says. Hey! It’s Uncle Jeff, who isn’t really your
uncle, but you can’t talk right now, one of the Jeffs has put his tongue
in your mouth. Please let it be the right one.
by Jon Pineda
A basket of apples brown in our kitchen,
their warm scent is the scent of ripening,
and my sister, entering the room quietly,
takes a seat at the table, takes up the task
of peeling slowly away the blemished skins,
even half-rotten ones are salvaged carefully.
She makes sure to carve out the mealy flesh.
For this, I am grateful. I explain, this elegy
would love to save everything. She smiles at me,
and before long, the empty bowl she uses fills,
domed with thin slices she brushes into
the mouth of a steaming pot on the stove.
What can I do? I ask finally. Nothing,
she says, let me finish this one thing alone.