Self-Portrait at 25 

by C. Francis Fisher


Last night I dreamt a man I never met. 
The one my father says became a hawk. 
Science insists the face I gave my grandfather    
is one I’ve seen before. A tired cab driver.
The man who delivers my mail. At the funeral,
a bird, heavy and wild, sat upon the casket
as it lowered. Can this be true? We share
a birthday. When my mother arrived near midnight,
the doctor gave her a choice. She wanted
the later date and says he held me in with 
a foot between her thighs. When I came out,
I was a little too blue and my head was flat. Now
I realize this is likely a joke, but I know so little
about birth I always believed her.


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