Callitrix by Holly Day

At birth, only fingerprints defined the difference between
the creatures with the small, round heads. Both of them constantly cried,
began and ended in a constant open-mouthed scream, black eyes tightly shut,
tiny hands clenched in mirror-perfect fists. It’s impossible to know
how their mother chose which infant to love and which to hate,
what tiny imperfection drew her ire.

At birth, only their fingerprints defined the difference between
the small, hairy bodies, the tiny forms that screamed and cried
every night. Perhaps it was the pitch of the screams that separated the twins
in their mother’s ears alone, perhaps it was the way one tossed and turned more
in its sleep, an indication of needing more love from her, or perhaps
some indication of a rejection she herself couldn’t handle. Or perhaps

it was the quieter twin that earned her ire, easier to ignore than the louder one
easier to surrender to the dark.



Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and The Tampa Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing).