You sit there, looking at it
and refusing to touch it.
But tag, you're it.

If you heard it, the sound of the clock
would be enormous.
If it happened, the draft on your skin
would sink ships.

The majesty of a paperclip.

You don't know where the plans you had
flew off.
Someone inside you scared them, sneezed
them away.

The stickers of your convictions unpeeled
and fell off things.
Some autumn.
As you look for the exit, you step on them.

Everyone takes off their dog tags and, silently,
hands them to you.
At first, they have their names on them.
Then they have yours.

Then they go blank.

You’ve been replaced in all the photos.
Your friends, your children, your strangers
don't seem to notice.

The mirror.

Mouth opens.
Fails to say something.
You fall into it.

___

BACOPA literary review, Fall 2024