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| Image / Jona |
When I was a child
I was a child of the Super 8
my positive image in reversed stock,
my father a whirr,
my mother a skirt waft
as we strode toward the little eye
hands held red rover, no one may break through.
Now movies play again re-mastered with mad color
my mother crying, her tears trouble me;
why do I care nothing for the past?
A discontinued technology which owes us nothing.
Nor care for any future;
the world that never existed,
who dares record it?
Behind me my watchful sisters
whisper each name: Geordie, Heidi
Alysia whenever a face appears and I think
as I did then, for I believed no film could fail:
here I am, unretouched, my gait the same,
following no one to oblivion. I have no master,
not even the lines on the street.
Previously published in The Virgina Normal Journal
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| Meridawn Duckler |
Merridawn Duckler is a writer and visual artist from Oregon and author of INTERSTATE (dancing girl press), IDIOM (Washburn Prize, Harbor Review), MISSPENT YOUTH (rinky dink press), and ARRANGEMENT (Southernmost Books). She won the Beullah Rose Poetry Contest from Smartish Pace. She has work published in Seneca Review, Interim, Posit, Plume, Massachusetts Review, and Ninth Letter.
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