rehearsal

Artwork by Aarushi Gupta

There are eyes in my memory.

In my muscles, in the corners of rooms

where no one sits. Even air 

enters me uninvited. The world 

presses its thumbprint into my wax, and I 

melt into the shape they’ve named woman.

Someone speaks her name as if they know it,

I lean in hard—am I who you see? 

Your expression tells me I’m not. I’m only a witness.

I watch her the way you do.

She bends at the elbows so you won’t flinch away.

I am always a few seconds behind her.

I like this.

I like that I am liking it the way I am 

meant to. I do not have to think anymore.

The woman—poised, practiced—

rises and speaks for me. 

She gets things right. 

She has my face,

as all previous iterations of her do—

none of them with my mouth.