Afterimage

I used to leave our house, feeling myself separate,
one girl walking in the waning afternoon sun, another floating
inches above and just behind, a ghost image.
She was back in Massachusetts, crunching
through fallen leaves towards the soccer field,
warm in the season's first wool sweater.

Now in another eastern autumn, I am present
to the sounds of a new street, sights of a new city:
Subways rumbling beneath, shopkeepers sweeping
clean their yards of sidewalk, children kicking idly
at pigeons.  I am present, my feet in work shoes,
my fingers slick with chalk dust, my mouth speaking
of the atmosphere, and the absence of oxygen
in our experiment.

                           But when I let my eyes relax,
from this demanding present, I see her gliding
beside me, my translucent self, and let myself slide
into her easy sandals, once and again mine.

I can feel the way that secondhand couch gave beneath me,
in our old house, when I came home to crash.
I can hear you cooking together in the kitchen,
smell the onions, feel them smart in my eyes.
I want to go upstairs, get my stereo--I can feel its weight
and awkwardness, tipping the corner of our table.  Now
it is Sunday; I am sitting with coffee, calling out crossword clues,
while you cook eggs and your own spicy soup--
we are all in sweatpants, whatever we wear when all our clothes
are drying on the line, and I get up to go pile another load
into the wash.  My shirts will smell like foxtails, crackling grasses,
the final dried jasmine: our backyard.  My body leans,
feeling the bump and curve of our driveway, leaving
on a bike, my front tire a little flat.

I am like a comet, these days, trailing the dust
of my core in a glowing afterimage, leaving a little
of myself in each world I pass, collecting debris
and streaking onward.  I am walking up the hill
towards home at dusk, after the soccer game;
I am asleep in the lap of our gold colored couch;
I am here teaching, writing, hearing music on the streets.
I am slipping between these, presently, all three,
unsure at times which is subject, which reflection.

by Kelly Vaughan
October 5, 2000

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by Kelly Vaughan