In the chemical light of afternoon,
our bodies curl over phones,
sprawl slightly toward windows,
holding empty forms,
as if it’s test day.
 
Once we were boys and girls.
 
A faded poster says we’ve shed
a thousand skins since then.
 
Outside in the street,
a road crew mends its yellow line,
drilling up the pitted asphalt like a long,
thin biopsy, one that refuses
to stop for summer,
or to tell us anything.
 
Driving over today, I spoke to my ex;
he recited my history,
reminded me of the old score.
 
But I don’t know he says
you may not be the same person.
 
In the exam room, I’m spread
to the four directions,
they survey my shell.
 
Brothers and sisters, I see you
looking out from inside your casings.
 
Can you say what I am now?
 
In the parking lot,
a woman standing beside her busted car,
watching your looking-glass door,
tears in the seams of her face.
 
They will soak the pavement,
wet blotches spreading.
 
 

Kristin Fogdall
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