“Different Worlds” - Not really a poem, though in poem form. Ish.

Hers is of wind and sea,
Of salt spray and sun-rosed eyelids;
Of bare toes, laughter lines, and scintillating rainbow fabrics;
Of late-night rum cups,
Flames licking driftwood in the hearth,
And copious skin-on-skin time with her latest lover.

His is of cold dark woodland,
Of moss-riddled bark and soggy boots;
Of solitude, unvoiced thoughts, and bitter, stabbing memory;
Of early morning chores,
Of wire and blood and death
And leather stretched taut across thick callouses.

Side by side they kneel in the mud and ash,
Conversing in whispers
Whenever the guards are out of earshot.
“What do you know of strength?” he mutters,
Split lip curled and breath sour from despair.
“I know the light is strength,” she insists.
“Strength is laughter; strength is gentleness. Strength is love.”
At this he spits, not in contempt,
But to clear the pink saliva from his swollen tongue.
“Nay. Strength is the dark in men’s hearts.
“It is well-planned deception; it is brute force. It is steel.”

A pause, heads bowed, as a guard trudges past.

“You are certainly our father’s son.”
“And you our mother’s daughter!”
“Rest in peace.”
“Rest in peace,” he agrees, voice softened.

From far off, the call of a gull,
Fading as the breeze changes direction.
“Our worlds are not the same,” the sister says, pensive.
“Not anymore,” the brother grunts, scowling.
“But that’s okay.”
“Is it?”
“Your strength can break us free, help us escape.”
He nods, brow furrowed.
She leans closer. “But what then?”
His eyes scan the ground, searching. “I see. Yes, okay.”
“You do, brother?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Hope swells in her heart like the coming tide.
As he straightens, his shoulders are broad, his eyes shining.
“Your strength… can prevent this from ever happening again.”
She smiles.
“Yes, brother. Yes, it can. But only if we work together.”
“Then let’s,” he whispers, watching intently as the guard approaches.
“Yes. Let’s.”

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