From you, I inherited double vision.
I have two school bus stops.
Two Christmas stockings.
Two spots at two dinner tables.

You walked into my band concert
with a woman on either side of you,
but I don’t have two moms.
You had a wife. Now you have a wife.
You have women.

Music seeps under your bedroom door.
You grab each instrument you own
like it’s your favorite.
I have one guitar. I marvel at you,
pressing down six strings with just one finger.
I have your hands.

My mother sleeps in a half-empty bed,
bakes spiced bread to suffocate the smell
of the unfamiliar sweet you dragged home.
I have my mother’s eyes,
but I have your hands to cover them with.
Maybe I’ll have women.

I have two sisters.
You have two daughters.
We teach by example. They will learn
to be someone’s women.

You have a room full of guitars.
Now I have two. I forget about the second
because of how much I love the first,
but it will always be there, waiting for me to play.

When I do,
I hold it by the neck
with your hands.