Before the Narrative

I was digging for a tool to fix the sink

and found her stuck to the underside

of a flashlight that hasn't worked since May.

She is nineteen and wearing heavy leather.

Her hair is a mess of wind and confidence,

leaning against the hood of a black coupe

I have never seen in the background of our life.

The Polaroid has those serrated white edges,

and a smudge of a thumbprint across the sky

right where the sun should be.

It is terrifying to see her so finished,

so complete, before I was even a ghost

of a thought in the back of her mind.