“I don’t know who I’ve become” by Soleil Garneau

I don’t know who I’ve become

I’ve been scattered over all the places

I’ve been like dust—with everyone I’ve touched. There’s

enchantment—like how a river snakes. Remember hiking Harpers Ferry,

sweating in hundred degree heat. Lush,

green, heaving. Almost passed out. Bent to drink

from the Shenandoah, my head next to the copperheads.

I have chosen perpetual change.

I don’t have a face, I don’t age with time. I don’t look

in the mirror. What I mean to say is I don’t know who I am,

but I have walked in different forms,

over different lands, for centuries. What I mean is I have lived.

My body has been shattered, and each shard has taken on a life of its own.

Like a snake I slide out of my skin.

Like a cicada, I’ve left traces of myself everywhere I’ve been.

Every movement is a shedding is a loss.

I’ve left pieces of myself all over, but

I carry what I can. I drag all these shards around.

I sift through dust until my hands become a sieve—

and my body a road.

Soleil Garneau is a writer and educator currently based in Los Angeles. She is a Community of Writers alum and an MFA Candidate in UC Riverside’s Department of Creative Writing. Her work has appeared in The Spectacle, Salt Hill Journal, Verse Daily, Air/Light Magazine, and elsewhere. Instagram: @soleilwacky2