(highland park, around christmas.
maybe snow. i wasn’t there, i don’t know.)
guest room facing east
and one of me, circa 1997, in bed, blissed.
actually, two,
two of me, bliss in two parts, and
one of me is mother. one of me is father now in wellesley.
my hands smell of metal,
pyrite, because so much has gotten away,
and no prescription for adderall. no plasters, either.
i try to hold hands with each of me
to show that i’ve grown,
that i am at the same time here and there, but
where are my loose hairs?
that i brush out and rub together and keep?
to show shedding and also to create something out of me in my
new room (durham. smelling of swamp, different but still) facing east?
and one of me, circa now, in bed, missed.
* This poem results from a found poem exercise, meaning it is sourced from preexisting poetry. The title of this poem, as well as some of the lines (“lying in bed, blissed,” “my hands smell of metal, pyrite,” and “no prescription for adderall”) are indebted to the 2018-2019 Sarah Lawrence College and Bedford Hills Combined Course and their zuihitsu, Rare Things. The original credit goes to the poets of this course and can be found on page 63 of Rare Things.
Edited by Jamie Chen (@bjorqcute)
ANNA SCHECHTER is senior at Sarah Lawrence College, where she studies writing and literature. Her work has been published by The SLC Review, love and squalor magazine, and The Isis Magazine. Last spring, she was awarded proxime accessit winner of Wadham College’s Rex Warner Prize for her short story “The Swap”. You can usually find her walking her dogs or curled up with a book.