Your Shadow

What you do, your shadow seems 
to do: you turn your head to the right,
and you see out of the corner of one
eye that your shadow also turns.

Someone told you a story
about a child who lost its shadow;
his friend sewed it back on again.
How can this even be?

Yet you lift your hand, it does
the same. You raise a spoon
from the bowl to your lips,
and it makes the same

gesture that means
feeding, means sustenance.
Yes what if your shadow is not
just your own, but the one left

behind in another country
shaded the color of afternoon
and wound? Whatever you bring
to your lips in this world

only courses as air
through her throat in that
other world. You grow
sleek or full in this light

while that shadow thins,
grey like soup or a stain
on the sidewalk that flickers
but doesn't wash out with rain.

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