Self Portraits in Retrospect
by Jane Morton
It hasn’t been a good year, but it’s almost over now, the me who lived it
almost dead, tossing and turning under white sheets.
I’m packing up the house. I’m taking everything:
all the jewelry, all the knives, even a child I found, just born,
black around the neck.
I’ll raise her as my own. Nurse her
with the tap water I’ve drunk all my life.
If she cries, I’ll put her to bed, light a cigarette,
crawl in with her, cradle her.
And if the old me drops by, childless, knife-handed, and demands
her fair share, I’ll swear I never knew her.
Maybe she’ll weep. And I’ll weep with her, my new life
curled between us.
I’ll invite all the other mes: crawl in, cry. We all deserve an apology.
We all deserve death. Somehow
we get by with neither. Time passes. Everyone forgets.
almost dead, tossing and turning under white sheets.
I’m packing up the house. I’m taking everything:
all the jewelry, all the knives, even a child I found, just born,
black around the neck.
I’ll raise her as my own. Nurse her
with the tap water I’ve drunk all my life.
If she cries, I’ll put her to bed, light a cigarette,
crawl in with her, cradle her.
And if the old me drops by, childless, knife-handed, and demands
her fair share, I’ll swear I never knew her.
Maybe she’ll weep. And I’ll weep with her, my new life
curled between us.
I’ll invite all the other mes: crawl in, cry. We all deserve an apology.
We all deserve death. Somehow
we get by with neither. Time passes. Everyone forgets.
Jane Morton is currently pursuing her MFA in creative writing in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where she is an assistant poetry editor for the Black Warrior Review.
