My earliest memory is someone else’s.
A few years later, I eat all the yellow
flowers off the clover, the first of 1000
small secrets I’ll forget. The little boys
are my neighbors and I spend each
afternoon making us a home. Soon
my legs grow so long they are other
than myself. More parts follow,
scaffolding becomes necessary.
The marching band plays songs I know
by heart; I mean that I memorize all
the words. Each time I get on a plane,
I’m someone new, until I’m so good
I don’t need to fly to transform.
When my parents are suddenly
more tired than they’ve ever been,
I take over the farm, the spoonfeeding.
One minute I’m becoming
myself, the next I’m forgetting how.
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