The Ghost in the Blue Folder

The man in the photo has a jawline I don't recognize,

a flat, startled stare aimed at a lens in a strip-mall basement.

He looks like he’s waiting for a sentence to be handed down,

or maybe he’s just tired of holding his breath for the flash.

On page twelve, a purple stamp from a rainy Tuesday in July

has bled through the paper, a Rorschach blot of a border town

where I remember the coffee being bitter and the bedsheets damp,

though the name of the street has dissolved in the wash.

The gold leaf is flaking off the eagle’s left wing,

leaving a trail of glitter in the bottom of my desk drawer.

It’s a heavy little book to carry through a life,

proving I was somewhere else before I became this.