It isn't really absent from the mirror—

just many times removed.

Think of a computer's hard drive,

imagine a file, or many files,

deleted but not really gone;

a skilled hacker can disinter them.

Or picture an old, pre-digital camera:

think of double exposures

doubled and redoubled,

layer after folded layer,

an endless origami.

Could it be that all those he has fed on,

now part of him,

have begun to usurp his identity?

Or, at least, take away

the part of him

that struggles to be born inside the mirror?

These faces, these lives,

obliterated,

can't be seen clearly

but clearly are effacing his.

Perhaps these others,

no more than a blur at best,

come into focus in his daydreams,

small nuisances,

mosquitoes feeding while he sleeps.

Later, he wakes to the moon's glassy stare,

wondering why he feels hungrier

after each night, each feeding,

than he was the night before.