She watches the other, her well twin,
from a distance. Sees the part
of the story where that one
untangles a piece of clematis
from its hedge.

She marvels at the show
of patience with which a woman
loosens each branch, undoes
the puzzle of spirals.
Her own hair in curls,

a witch or a crone
come from elsewhere
while she was asleep. Her dreams -
the terrible things that happen there
on her pillow...

She watches it all
as if it were a film
and she the one-down,
out of luck protagonist
to blame for soap's maudlin lines:

I love you, I want you, I am happy, I am sad...
The day works over her muscles
the same knotted strings
that bound her once to a kite,
a piece of Paradise, the right side of youth.