Before I Was Watching

A photograph fell from a box—

me at seven, striped shirt,

a place I don't recognize

or recognize too late.

Someone's arm cuts into the frame,

cropped just below the elbow,

holding the camera steady.

I was there.

I lived that moment.

I wore that shirt.

But the girl in the photo

is a stranger.

No memory of the place,

the day, the reason someone

pointed a camera at her

and said whatever you say

to make a child stand still.

Just evidence

that I existed

before I was watching myself exist.

The girl in the striped shirt

lived a whole moment

I can't access anymore.

She was someone

I used to be

and I don't remember her at all.