one for my hope chest

The one we’re supposed to ignore

Peter Pan tried to cut off his shadow
and it seems to me that all the old selves cling in this suffocating fashion
all the cruel notes and rough-hewn beliefs and mornings of waking from dreams of strong arms to
find only a cold pulsing alarm beside the twin bed

shadows are funny things, more explicit and fierce in the plain light
when you know for sure
(or for ninety-nine percent anyway)
where the old parts stop and the authentic begins

because in the full light of noon false dichotomies make sense

later, in the luscious purple moments before the last glowing embers fall below the horizon,
a shadow may grow strong, swallowing up a sidewalk, a field, a friend
it can pull long and thin like taffy until you wonder if it even ends at all
or if it circles round the whole earth

an interminable orbit of fading gray selves

when the evening rises, though, and all the world chooses to be nondescript or neon, the shadows of the former,
(those sly old dogs)
flit about and nestle down into the carpet yarn in the corners
creep and dance and leap like nymphs

Peter Pan had it right, I think
to tread light and traceless, shadow-free
Unfettered to the former
to the one we’re supposed to ignore

But mine won’t tear free like thin black tulle