Self-Portrait As an EchoIvy Kleinbart
I was only able to see you in mirrors so your image wasn’t constant or clear. When steam from a hot tap streaked the glass and the walls swelled, you disappeared. In the park, I looked up from a slate of pond you leaned over and found you again, through rippled pupils. You were handing out leaflets on the corner; I was the only taker. I reached for a copy, our hands never touched. We locked eyes in a storefront window as you passed, alarmed at the warps but pretending disinterest. Now, when I waver at an entrance, you walk ahead and check the gate. We sit opposite each other on the subway, always on the verge of recognition.
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