The Terms And Conditions Of You
Sometimes two bodies make one. And when this happens, the you you thought you were, with all of your strengths and complexities and humors and doubts—is dead. And you accept this death willingly. You welcome it. You no longer go looking for your you on the other side of mirrors. You no longer need to tie the feet of your you into shoes or to cover the skin of your you with a blanket. Your you is gone. And when a child asks Why Do I Close My Eyes you answer To Sleep.
But over time you find you need a vessel—something to surround or contain or identify this new you that you are. And so you wander down into the earth, below the roots. Or you drift to the bottom of the ocean. Or you are burned. And you have no shape so you can be many places all at once. And you have no shape so you can love so completely that you are on occasion overwhelmed into a glowing form that resembles somewhat your old you and this form appears to answer children in dark moods and certain shifts of light. But mostly you are without form.
You are form-less. And when you ask Why Do I Close My You a child answers, Begin.
Tamra Carraher has published three books of poems and illustrations for children titled PICTURE/BOOK, Bluefish Haiku and Alphabet Book. Her artwork has been exhibited in galleries in Philadelphia and appears in Straightforward Poetry. Her poems have appeared in Toe Good Poetry, Literary Mama and Burningword Literary Journal. She received an MFA from New England College in January 2014, is an Associate Editor for the Naugatuck River Review, and has started a quarterly magazine called Alexandria Quarterly: www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com.
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