Doppelganger


the flesh of your ghost is more tender,
more fond, said he, who bed her,
(when i went with the sand, pulled out undertow)
the flesh of your ghost smells like baby powder
and gasoline. her grip is stronger than yours,
leaves her fingerprints on my seal neck
for my wife to mull, to bury under the pile
of plates in the kitchen sink,
to whisper mouselike to her gods.

but I am afraid, said he, afraid to bid her
farewell. for she does not know what
a steel murderess she is; only in her ignorance
will you, my poor wraith, sit pretty on your throne.

he puts a cigarette near his lips,
waits for an reentrance, my wanton hand appearing
on the brassy knob of the purple door.

flicks open the silver zippo,
lights his hair.


2006© HrJ