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And Then You Are This Person
Parents pass away slowly after their death;
come back as your face in a mirror.
Our days are a code
written on the blind side of our skin.
You watch yourself
coming out of a childhood bedroom
eyes still wet from a foreboding dream,
see yourself getting lost in a dark theater
knowing, even as a child,
that would not be the last time.
You grew up too fast
and almost disappeared.
A friend dies in your arms,
you take her on your Suzuki
to the Thai river market,
drop her ghost into the Peng river;
hope that it will eventually
find its way back to Arkansas.
People you have known
remain as hand-shadows,
still pulling
broken strings on a wall of time.
And then you are this person,
and all you can do is watch
from your many
makeshift storm-shelters.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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