Things I’ve Seen Different Versions of Myself Do

She wakes to the sprinkler
system snapping out from
its underground lair and
joins it on the lawn,
together they hiss
at the street lamps blocking
the light of her five year plan.


Emerging from some woods,
she drags girlhood to a clearing,
hacks it up in roastable sizes
chars the shell, afterwards she
picks meat from her teeth and
builds a necklace of all the times
she looked at herself in the mirror.


After a rain storm she is spotted running
down the median of an interstate naked.
Keeping up with the passing vehicles, she is
the neon purple blur of self-confidence
trailing behind herself a desperate
comet of flailing flab.


her shadow passes
herself on roller skates, spins
and doubles back to
scoop out all her undesirable
parts, puts it a backpack and
rolls back away all while
whistling never gonna
get it never gonna get.


In a crowd
sees herself
and self begins to
wave at her:
for attention.
she looks around
herself, pretends
that they’ve
never met.



Caitlyn Lee has an MFA in poetry from Eastern Washington University’s Inland Northwest Center for Writers.