Self-Portrait at 9
There is something coming for me,
& the terror is that
I cannot name it.
My parents named me, & I
never asked them for
the story, the scraps
they offered me, unbidden,
before bed do not help--
that I would have been an Anne.
Sometimes I wish I was Anne.
I still remember what panic
felt like the first time
I knew that I would die
& my father would die
& it wouldn't happen
at the same time.
The terror is coming for me
& it remains hidden
behind a curtain that does
not move, even in this wind.
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