Eighth Birthday
in the photograph I am leaning over,
thrusting air from my lungs
as hard as an eight year old can
even then, my arms tightly
held against my chest,
ready just in case
eighth birthday; the last
number of candles
without the feeling of absence
or maybe this is how
it has become in memory,
a single point among many
as if I had become a Seurat landscape
and everything that had once been fluid
now stood, frozen
so that the naked eye,
desperate to capture the truth,
might take it all in
even if twenty plus years
have gone by, and everything,
including the skin
that covered my little body,
has either faded
or disappeared all together.
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