I am
terror-stricken
in three fading freeze frames
from the K-Mart photo booth.
Wide-eyed desperation and
fear are written in deep shadow
creasing three-year-old cheeks.
It’s there in stark black and white:
what he did to me and how
my world had gone gray
before New Year’s Day.

I am
six on the one hand,
half a dozen on the other,
laughing myself silly in this one,
all bottled rage in that one. Here,
the Floridian bay where stingrays swam
and, there, the neighbor’s treehouse.
I jumped from that high haven once,
daring God not to take me back.
He didn’t want me yet,
and I saw seven.

I am
the Indian princess, hair
in braids and dressed in a fabric
of dancing color, woven threads
that sing in unison, harmonic tones
of grace. A rare smile, peace-filled,
lightens a face that has known
but nine young years, yet
carries the storied wisdom
passed through
the generations.

I am
twelve tribes returning,
recognizing my beginning and
my end lies in the Ever-Living One.
It is the twelfth day of the twelfth month
in my twelfth year of life, and
I go down into the waters,
rising up in newness of life.
Aware already of my task,
I set out on bold journey,
adventure of faith.

I am
sixteen candles
without a party. Grandma,
my one sure thing, is gone, and
I might as well have been living
on the moon or with the little green
men she believed in. This should be
the happiest time, but one shivers
looking at the desolate desert
behind green meadow eyes
moist with troubling Truth.

I am
twenty-two reasons
to say no and one obstinate
”I do.” I choose to create a dream
that doesn’t exist, determined
to become a master of fate
and mistress to none. I dismiss
my partner’s partial participation
and say I can handle it, I’ll do it
all on my own, and soon
I am all alone.

I am
thirty, divorced, beginning again
with a child of two and a heart
ready to believe in miracles.
Here they have begun, and
I shine, bathed in a glow
of golden gleam and promise
of things to come. My heart
beats wildly to see me there,
unaware, oblivious
to what danger awaits.

I am
thirty-three and I have lost more
than I lost before. Two days
before Christmas and I have
been summarily dismissed
from the work that was
the fulfillment of a call,
from the lives of people
I have loved, still love,
from everything I know
and have come to trust.

I am
thirty-nine, standing on the edge
of forty, living nobody’s dream,
just trying to keep my head
above water, refusing
to drown in sorrows
that have been, hating
this thorn in the flesh that
tears at my mind and spills out
in swinging moods. Here I am,
reaching for real joy.