. . . 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.”




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