Two By Two Inches

Under the buzzing, pharmacy light,

I tried to look serious, and right,

for the camera's cold, unblinking stare,

a version of me caught in mid-air.

It’s ten years old, this cardboard square,

a flat, still ghost, beyond compare

to the lines that now bloom round my eyes,

the way my mouth gives up its disguise.

This stranger, with that careful pose,

has none of the stories my skin knows.

She’s neat, contained, a perfect print,

while I am spilling, with every hint

of breath, of worry, of what I feel,

the edges blurred, impossibly real.