Portrait: Future Self

"He who learns must suffer." ~ Aeschylus

What did you find in the place
         you weren't looking to find a letter, 
a trace, an early remnant of who 
         you were before your reinvention? 
Whoever wrote about you, newborn child, 
         reaped from the womb for transfer into 
the arms of another? How does it feel 
         to meet this future in the cotton   
wrappings of the past, to touch the soft  
         cheek before it took on the color of doves  
or hands in twilight? And later, how will you 
         learn you can live, even if the beginning 
remains a window like water or gauze, through which 
         you glimpse hazy filaments making shapes?

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