What if I use five-fourths instead of three-fourths?

I light three candles instead of two
There are two of me in bed
Footsteps from upstairs are our planetarium
One or both of me wakes up
Above us, planets roll like marbles
I kill one roach dead and there are three more
They can’t handle the poison in my closet
I have been touched by a galactic sound
The risk is being more than one whole
If I am the one in bed then I am the one at the door
If I am the one at the door then I am the one asking for a receipt
If I am the one asking for a receipt then this could be The End
If this is The End then I am bleeding a little
The risk averts grief
The risk puts down the flashlight
The risk holds the door to let more in
My one self deprives my other self 
They are trying to get our weight down
Three of me are still in bed
I’ve already seen six
The door opens, a timely drug
The bugle sounds
The beagle sounds
I don’t have a beagle
That is not the risk
Maybe gluttony is not The End but The Start
My mother Started with three and had none
Then she Started with three and had two
My one twin is my only twin
When does excess become emergency?
I dreamed that my body and my instruments were related
I hear people above us and people below us hear me
Last night my one self drank all the alcohol 
Last night my other one self lit four candles instead of one
They lit them and are lighting them
There is so much it might fall on my head 
I’m worried about this but on another day
If I am the one at the window then I am the one who wants to leave
If I am the one who wants to leave then I haven’t arrived yet
If I have yet to arrive then I am the cold supper
If I am the cold supper then I am a kind of grief 
I have already seen too much
There are six roaches in bed
My selves hide out of reach
For every six there are three more
I move my hand and they hide a little
I’d like to lift my head but on another day
My one self kills ten, eleven
Planets are poisonous Jupiter especially
I dreamed that they all fell on my head
A big red bruise, bleeding a little

Ancestor

I set the table for Ancestor and no one comes.
The fruit gets rotten and the swiss goes bad.
I have had to make so much shit up.
No one to meet me at my altar but myself.

So I walk before myself
and behind myself walking forward.
I move myself along like ducks.

This is my procession, homely and weird.
All of me frantic to fling these doors open.

Rachel Whalen is a poet, playwright, and translator from Buffalo, New York. They recently completed an MFA at NYU, where they are a Poetry Editor for the Washington Square Review.