I found a box of pictures I drew
when I was six.
They are all of me.
I know this
because the hair is yellow,
the eyes are green
and there is always an arrow pointing to her
with careful printing:
this is me.
The dresses are intricate
with waistlines that start at the neck.
I can still feel the reverence
in those tiny flowers along the hems,
the way my arms jut out in arches
as though I am carrying enormous loads
of invisible things.
But what strikes me the most about each portrait
is the mouth,
an ardent smudge of colour
evokes the sense that my life
as I reflected on it
when I drew these pictures,
must have felt to me
like the most free
and wondrous thing.