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.