Late Reflection

In this version of me all the ghosts of the past 
have left, having tired of pulling at the corners
of my mouth and squeezing the area just below
my diaphragm. By that time, perhaps no one
will think to ask why I never seem to smile
in pictures. By that time, perhaps sleep
will be an ordinary bed with an ordinary pillow
instead of a narrow, unlit cell where I turn
in a frenzy all night. In this version of me,
rain is no longer the only mercurial element
and onions do not make wounds weep. What's left
is some light by which to see I am not the only
one who can't swim, who throws a slight shadow;
who plucks at the strings of broken mandolins.

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