My mother sent me boxes of my childhood things, and things that have belonged to me while I have been (nominally or actually) living in her house post-childhood. Among these were several of my journals from Mauritania. I'm reading through them and suddenly I realize (I don't think I can say this without sounding incredibly vain) that I'm actually quite a good poet. A poem I wrote about a college friend who has three times my talent and six times my drive, and who is now a rising poet:

To Heather, Who Does Not Read Poems

A chisel in her hand
Clouds of greyness, a clay goddess
Before the cruder marble
When she turns to greet me

To understand
Her courage with pointed instruments
Is to descend into nonexistence

Always sharper than I dared to be
Since smooth edges were desirable
Always ruthless, always clear
A secret only she could keep

In endless moonlight
The throbbing drums beckoning
Draw forth mysteries



It's not as clear as it might be, it needs rewriting, but I do manage to put words together in ways that both communicate and please.

It's comforting to have one's own old self around to speak to.