I saw myself hanging on the back of the door.
Startled, I pressed my hand to my throat—
just my coat, an illusion. It was nothing more.
I thought it was me on the back of the door
in some twisted suspension, some horror film rigging
but it was merely illusion, it was nothing more,
no blood on the floor, no sobbing or begging.
In some twisted suspension of horror flick rigging,
I recalled his departure, the outgoing train.
No blood on the floor, no sobbing or begging,
All evidences vanished—no photos, no stain.
I recalled his departure, the distancing train—but
how little of him would remain in a year.
All evidences vanished, no photos or stains,
and such blessed forgetfulness! Such simple repair.
There was no one here, just the mirror’s artifice—still,
startled, I’d pressed my hand to my throat—
No. He’d been here: his photos, his stain—I insist—
just yesterday in the mirror’s reflection.