The Doubles

Kara van de Graaf

In the dressing room at Macy's,

I run into all my old bodies.

We are reunited when I hear them

shuffling in the walls, sense them

beneath the dirty carpet. Their hips

lurching out of drywall. Their breasts

swelling against the concrete floor.

I congratulate one on her thin legs.

We commiserate about side-boob.

We try on dresses from the junior's section

and laugh. Relive our proms, our red-haired

date who cried the whole night

about that other girl. We kiss. Arm-wrestle.

Bitch-slap. Wish we were never born.

When we part we look at each other longingly,

doe-eyed. The way two mirrors,

when you put them opposite, reflect

each other forever and ever.