In Which an 81-Year-Old Self Addresses a Portrait of a Ten-Year-Old Self

with a stranger’s

eye I see you


good girl

shy smile

no beauty


our parents are

cool with you

they allocate

their parents were

the same with them

depression war

did the rest

the little murders

of the soul

calm down calm down

parse it out

touch the touch

the little murmurs

of the soul

you are my own

abundance joyous

cuckoo chick

alone in a world

blown free of love

it is not you

they do not love

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