My shadow resides in my left hand,
the mole on the edge of my upper lip.
She loves getting drunk off her ass
and being the deadpan comedienne of the party,
smoldering by the firepit
and making up her world as she goes along.
My shadow has thick, gypsy hair
and dresses in long, river—y skirts
and groovy tapestry shirts.
She is the mystery woman
at the wedding reception
drawing men like bees
to her flowering scary self.
