. . . Stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were dark
pits and my gums had turned a pulpy red. I seemed to
be looking at the portrait of
a man who hadn’t eaten a piece of fruit
in years—he’s skeletal
but somehow large. Reaches for me
as I go to sleep, touches
my tongue with two fingers
as if trying to taste the peaches
from the previous spring, holds my earlobes
for a long time. Hears wind
and leaves. In the morning, he is gone
again, no semblance of skin
or clothing left behind, and yet, I know
he is real. A shadow, a moth,
but existing. Without him, I’d forget
how to feel.
*
Taken from Charles D’Ambrosio’s “Screenwriter,” included in his collection, The Dead Fish Museum. His writing ends on the second line of the poem, “in years.”