Edison Jennings

The dresser gone, the highboy, and the bed,
but she had left the mirror, old, ornate,
with gilded frame and black-blotched full-length glass.
How many times had he watched her appraise
her full effect, adjusting a blouse, the drape
of a scarf, the trim of her dress, soliciting
sometimes his critique, inviting him into
small complicities—these shoes, this belt,
this scent?—while he stood behind her, doing up
a zipper he hoped later to undo?

Now all undone, the bedroom disarrayed,
unused.  More convenient to sleep downstairs
because they had agreed on his and hers,
and she had picked up almost all her things.
Odd, she did not take the gilded mirror. 
Well, she could come and get it when she pleased.
He walks about the room, astonished by
the mess she left: sachets, stockings, barrettes—
the stuff she didn’t want.  And when he leaves,
he watches his reflection shut the door.

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