The Weight of Reflected Light

Your absence is a lion’s den: I sweat and wait it out
or it consumes me. My days are grey apostrophes
to where you were, unroofed columns;
the dead legs of a bug on the bathroom floor,
untractioned of you, no you to hide in from the light’s
               white cast.
Our mirrored world detests a pairless thing.  I wear
your hand’s medallion on my palm, screw
your shadow to my step, doubled with your memory
like a phantom limb. And every night the moon
lets slip the light’s white lattice from her shoulder,
bracing for her plunge into the aspirated dark.