by Mary Turkot<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
bangs cut straight across, I trace<\/p>\n
my finger along\u2014<\/p>\n
jet black, flat<\/p>\n
like a pin\u2014her hair.<\/p>\n
a little girl, 2003<\/p>\n
caught behind glass,<\/p>\n
plastered there<\/p>\n
forever, the longer I stare<\/p>\n
the harder it is to believe<\/p>\n
she could be me.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
because the glass in the mirror<\/p>\n
frames a different face, and clearer<\/p>\n
there\u2019re scars on her surface<\/p>\n
that weren\u2019t there<\/p>\n
before, marks on her skin,<\/p>\n
sunspots from staying out too long<\/p>\n
in summer, tens of \u201cten more minutes\u201d<\/p>\n
at the pool when she was six<\/p>\n
or before waking at sixteen,<\/p>\n
the year she lost\u2014<\/p>\n
well, that\u2019s not really a loss<\/p>\n
because she learned later<\/p>\n
you can\u2019t lose what you were taught.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
maybe if I could find her somewhere,<\/p>\n
this chubby cheeked girl<\/p>\n
in the pink dress,<\/p>\n
and maybe if I could know the hand she holds,<\/p>\n
perpetually<\/p>\n
caught like a snowflake, frozen<\/p>\n
perfect<\/p>\n
a piece of time, a slice<\/p>\n
of never before seen<\/p>\n
and never be back again,<\/p>\n
a pressed flower\u2014<\/p>\n
her on his lap,<\/p>\n
holding his hand,<\/p>\n
that man<\/p>\n
I never knew, never<\/p>\n
could know<\/p>\n
not in a million lifetimes.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
who am I<\/p>\n
then, if it depends<\/p>\n
on that knowing?<\/p>\n
the whos and whats<\/p>\n
of where I come from\u2014<\/p>\n
well, maybe I just won\u2019t find it.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
this profile I see at night, right<\/p>\n
before closing the door<\/p>\n
to my bedroom, passing<\/p>\n
the hall mirror and thinking<\/p>\n
her?<\/p>\n
after all these years?<\/p>\n
this is what she became?<\/p>\n
it makes me wonder.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
well, she might have wounds that didn\u2019t heal<\/p>\n
quite right inside, the kind<\/p>\n
that ache slow and subtle<\/p>\n
and never really fade,<\/p>\n
not all the way.<\/p>\n
there\u2019s blank film in her head<\/p>\n
from back then,<\/p>\n
the days she chose to<\/p>\n
or had no choice but<\/p>\n
to forget.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
he\u2019s dead.<\/p>\n
but I\u2019m not, and<\/p>\n
so it seems to fit right when I say he\u2019s her<\/em> dad,<\/p>\n not mine,<\/p>\n because when I trace her jet black hair<\/p>\n hiding behind the picture frame,<\/p>\n it doesn\u2019t feel the way my curls do,<\/p>\n and the hand he holds is too small to be mine,<\/p>\n and those eyes\u2014<\/p>\n they haven\u2019t seen what I\u2019ve seen<\/p>\n and haven\u2019t yet loved\u2014<\/p>\n not the way I have.<\/p>\n they haven\u2019t felt that.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n so it\u2019s easier to say<\/p>\n that for all she doesn\u2019t know,<\/p>\n it is that she knows this\u2014<\/p>\n the way it feels to have him hold her<\/p>\n and the sound of his voice<\/p>\n and the way the rough sleeve of his jacket<\/p>\n rubs her arm too hard<\/p>\n when he picks her up and swings her,<\/p>\n the smell of his breath\u2014<\/p>\n it is that,<\/p>\n which makes her look more whole than I ever could.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n