by Sarah Carleton
They ride the East Coast, up, down,
hopping from venue to venue like fingers on a fretboard,
passenger-seat sister playing mandolin
as they sing to mark the miles, their paired tones
woven into road-tire roar.
On stage they perform the trick of trading instruments
for a tune or two to huge applause
—the audience can’t tell the difference, unaware
that the short one fiddles a hawk’s cry overhead
while the tall one chugs double stops,
but all are dazzled by this four-handed musician,
this single skin with a multilayered voice.
Those on the dance floor two-step, wishing they
too could blend with another human.
In the KOA at night, the twins bend air,
lending it loops and snags like the lines of a painting,
and the solo campers in their one-person tents
hear brush strokes—green-teal close harmonies,
orange-blue major thirds, white-black octaves—
as strings vibrate every leaf and blade.