The boy head controls the left side. He hides his face before the crowd and places his scabbed hand against the pale palm of the girl head, who controls the right side.
She smiles, biting her lip red with eagerness, glittering in their harlequin costume, enjoying the bulb-flashing spectacle and the voices, the ogling people. A child mesmerized by kaleidoscopes, her gaze a void.
That night, she chatters about loud lights, bright voices, teeth catching onto chapped skin. Her brother slips a finger into her mouth, and she chews, soothed, while he blows out their small candle.
Out of Oregon
After you picked the music and crawled onto the car roof, the animals ran back into the woods. Your breath didn’t cloud in the cold. My cheeks pinked, bunny-eared cap useless. You unfurled beside me.
I would not look at your eyes. I didn’t want that kind of night. But you bizarred the air with sound, touched my hair, and began to braid, fingers and hair twisting. Your eyes drained the red from my cheeks as a whip-poor-will began to sing against the radio.
I still can’t tell if I slept or if I was awake.