We could be identical twins
as we stand on the courthouse steps
surrounded by shirts and suits

in our sheath dresses, young bodies,
dark eyes, long straight brown hair.
But it’s what we do with our hands

that sets us apart. Her hands
demonstrate how she held down
the actress, swollen with child,

as the knife plunged, dipped a finger,
tasted the sweet sticky blood, 
scrolled PIG on the wall, smiling, dazed

as if she is recalling a pleasant memory.
After the press conference, her hands
are cuffed behind her back, while mine grip

the steering wheel and type the story.
That night, my hands snip my hair,
pour on peroxide. Later a tourist

chases me down Hollywood Blvd, begging
me for an autograph, saying she loves me
in Laugh-In and Cactus Flower.

The elevator door opens
and a cleaning lady
steps in dragging a bucket.

Leans against her mop
In her checkered skirt
and gray sweater vest.

I like your outfit, she says.
pointing to my purple
mini skirt. I like yours too.

What else do you say
to Charwoman, the alter
ego of Carol Burnette,

when you find yourself
in the wrong elevator
on the way to the live

taping of her TV show?
She laughs and discusses
her wardrobe malfunctions.

Then she walks on stage
and I take my seat
in the press section.

You hear a honk
and see a masked man
in your driveway.

You recognize the stance
and the blue eyes
of your neighbor.

Instead of a gun,
he is holding
a grocery bag,

which he deposits
on your doorstep,
then drives away

in his SUV, his wife
and children waving
out the windows.