When they walk past me in the park 
I shiver, as if two black cats 
had crossed my path. Uncanny, 
as if I were seeing things.
As if I were seeing two of me, 
myself and the one in the mirror, 
who must also be the one
I talk to when I'm alone.
The one I call “you,” who loves me 
better than any lover.
It is as though these sisters, 
who tie their shoes in the same double-bows 
and bite their fingernails 
down to the same horizon 
existed to expose 
twinlessness as a sham, 
to let us know they know 
about our secret: 
the lost, illicit other 
kept under lock and key 
in the last room of the mind.

These days, riding a subway 
to work and back, I notice 
that the passengers move their lips 
ever so slightly. I watch them 
lean into themselves 
as if toward a voice, 
and then turn to the window 
to search the backlit face 
in the black, speeding mirror.