How They Met Themselves

Fall, 2022 / No. 50

Your face first seen by me in a photo sent by a friend 

with the question: Is this you? The other person 

beside you and the room, strangers to me. Answer: 

No? But the mole, the eyes, the odd fiddlehead

curl of the ear. Think: Yes? My ex once ran 

after you until he realized: right face, wrong

stare, wrong gait. A loved one snapped

a pic of you in a dollar store as you considered

one empty jar over another. Even her lean. 

I haven’t seen you in years. That one fall 

evening we passed on the street. I smiled 

at you because you looked familiar. Like morning 

in the mirror, half asleep. Is it you or is it me

who is me? Who is us? Is it you or is it me who

has changed enough to be lost to the both of us? 

Are we the only ones left of us, if only lost to one 

another. Together, we are a doubled fingerprint, 

repeated snowflake, idea that promises, 

You’re the only one. You’re the only one who’s me. 

(Title taken from a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.)