The tower rises out like an obelisk:

a pin in a sea of terracotta roofs.

We rush to it, exploring the church courtyards

away from the sweeps of shutter speeds and blitzes. *

My sister tries to act casual as she puts her hand on the handle,

frozen in that pose, the perfect D.P for F.B,

till the green doors

crack open.

We slip between the folds

of church spire skin;

sandpaper stones

and salty quartz.

The stairs coil

in a double helix

with us tracing upwards

till calamity hits us from above

and below.

Eighteen chimes crash down on us.

The tolling of bells is synthesised so

that every church throughout Croatia

is reminding me it’s 6pm.

The doors open below us-

we stick like skinks to the walls,

waiting to be apprehended.

Two keys are used to lock us in.

A few minutes pass and I spook the girl

that comes to sit on the steps,

my eye and voice peeking through the keyhole.

A local girl, my height,

with the same brown hair,

stares back at me as she unlocks the door.

Stepping outside, a signal claims my sister’s phone:

forty six likes are added to her scrambled nucleus

of a cover page.

Days later I’m still staring at the local.

In the mirror we stand: a diploid in disguise.