Photo by mohadese marvi
There seems to be a woman
who visits the house at night.
She waits until everything is quiet—
Teddy asleep,
the street emptied of footsteps,
the kitchen settled into darkness.
Then she slips into my body
as easily as a coat.
By morning
there are clues she has been here.
Some mornings
the youth thief’s work
is more obvious than others.
My back moves with a certain caution
it did not possess the day before.
My waist
has wandered slightly
from its former position.
My bottom
has migrated forward
and now appears to be living
where my stomach once was,
giving the whole region
a toad-like aspect.
And my hair—
there is less of it.
Not alarmingly less,
but enough to suggest
the youth thief
has been through the place again.
She has clearly been in the closet.
My coat is not quite where I left it.
My sneakers
have the look of having travelled.
I suspect she goes out in them.
Most likely to the boulangerie
at the corner.
I imagine her standing there
confidently
wearing my face
while the baker greets her warmly
and hands her a baguette
without asking.
She walks Teddy as well.
He returns home cheerful
and faintly smug,
as though the walk
had been particularly good.
He offers no explanation.
She has also been
in my knitting basket.
The yarn is tangled
in the unmistakable way
of someone who believes
she remembers how to knit
but clearly does not.
A book has been opened.
A page folded.
Several things examined
that were none of her business.
By morning she is gone again.
The house looks almost the same.
Only the hair
a little thinner,
the back
a little slower,
and the baker
now greets me
with the comfortable familiarity
of a man
who seems quite certain
I have been coming there
for years.
Sometimes I wonder
whether I should stay awake one night
and confront her.
But I suspect
she would arrive
wearing my face
and insist
she has been here all along.