Janet Bowdan
Photo by Shana Sureck
Janet Bowdan’s poems have appeared in APR, Tahoma Literary Review, The Rewilding Anthology, Sequestrum, Lit Shark, and elsewhere. The editor of Common Ground Review, she teaches at Western New England University and lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with her husband, their son, and a very sweet book-nibbling chinchilla.
You, imagining your child will be you
just smaller, a mini-you,
that portrait drawn on 2” of ivory
with very fine brushes
so when you look closely
you see every detail.
A mirror, but better—
younger you
supported by someone (you)
who knows exactly what you need,
leaps up to fetch it. Who can fix
the things you can’t.
Aren’t you forgetting something?
Your mirror image crosses eyes,
Sticks your tongue out, laughs at you.
With both hands you stretches the frame
you put it in, tumbles out head-first
and rolls across the rug into
hero pose, ta-da! You hops onto the bed,
puts your feet on the pillow,
head over the other side, dangling
your hands into the Lego bin.
Why aren’t you sleeping? you complain,
knowing if it were you, you would be,
exhausted as you are, so ready for bed.
“I can’t sleep!” your exact opposite,
your bite-sized version says,
and you realize you has suddenly expanded.
Your feet are enormous. You towers
over you. You can reach the Frosted Flakes
you’ve kept way on top of the fridge.
You’s a Mega-you, a Mega-yourself.
You pats you on the head—“bless!”—
you says, gently pushing you aside on the way out.
