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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.

​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. 
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December 2017
ISSN 2157-8079
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