Giant Looks Giant in the Mirror

I was an infant until they handed me my brother
for a rattle. I was a baby until I suddenly shot up to six

feet tall. I was a toddler then, learning how to fall.
I was a boy until they dared to wound the future


man in me, was at home until home was a car.
I was a Weaver until I placed some dolls in a house,


named them Mom and Dad, told the therapist
I’m burning it all down. I was a Kelsey then


until I became a Kelsey—my uncles refused to play
brothers. At least I was a son again. I was a son again


until my parents died. Even then, I felt like myself
until forced to mind the boy inside. When I could not


find him, I held myself tight, said, Listen, it’s your job
to remember where I’m coming from. Mine to mind


where you’ve been. This was my story to tell until
it was my story. It was the ending until I began.


Read on . . .

A Mirror of a Mirror,” poetry by Michelle Whittaker


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