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You’ll look at these photos one day, and think

            how beautiful I was,

            how lovely.

Your hair is tasseled (the edging

of furniture fabric), you have a face like a peach.

Pristine (in its original condition),


crossed at your black-socked ankles,

your wrists, you say stubbornly

(not responding to treatment)

the beautiful girl can’t be happy.


This will pass (sage green, affable,

benevolently). It will pass.


Go to Fiona Wright's profile to read more poems