Mirror on a String

by Molly Goldman

I wish there were two hundred of me. Then I could be alone.
Imagine. You really don’t smell that? A thing of the past.
Of course we smell that. No questions like that. Two hundred of me!
We each have a strange shadow.
It’s like a window where it’s too dark to see beyond the glass.
I fill a train with myself.
We each sit facing a dark window in the night.
We think we’ve missed our stop.
Inside the train is lit up everywhere on me.
It could be the wrong train.
I put my neon palm to the dark glass like we are in an aquarium.
On the other side there’s an invisible polar bear
turning like a snowflake in a bright blue jello mold.
We know only the glass.
When we start to die, it’s okay.
It’s like a stew growing thicker under the lid.

Contact Molly at mollyrosegoldman@gmail.com.