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