I have held back my shadow
long enough, like a sheepdog
too long among the sheep.
It has learned only how to obey,
not how to bay for blood. I will stop
hiding it in the folds of my costume
like a chained watch.
But what
is this conspiracy of a mirrored floor
to unmoor us and flood our secret
parts with light? What other
oppressive heaven has sent
this self-on-a-shelf?