
fleeing from the man who can no longer walk,
who at one time borrowed your shoes,
Tonight he wore your black jacket
with those buttons that glared on his chest
like a row of stowaways. You
face the bathroom mirror—your skin
the same trap for stale light
as his. You take off your grieving
clothes, watch yourself naked against the wall—
your shadow dimming and dividing
like that upraised coffin's lid. All curves,
all upturned cups, your shadow draws an outline
of diluted color about to fade. The film
of black thinned out clings to its edge, stubborn
as a peeled-off secret come back
to claim its kiss. How you tease it,
stepped out of it the way you abandoned
that funereal suit whose tailored fit
says you belong back inside.
The corpse in the coffin: a man
who slept with you, whose lips
you cannot split apart again. His mouth
invited you in to confirm
that there is no final tongue touch
blistering within. You are no longer one.
The stitch that bound you came loose
ahead of the needle swallowing the thread.
Your lover and you
were never meant to be intact
completely, only temporarily connected
until that night you lean away, two
pieces of split wood. The black knot
from which you both take root
forces each of you to opposite ends.
Then what happens? In closing the book
of intimate glances, you learn
who leaves whom behind.
You looked at him and
the dead man rose to say goodbye,
not looking up or down
the way the preachers always say,
not looking in or out—
not even looking back.
Rigoberto Gonzalez
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