Abbie Kiefer

Palindrome with a Polaroid That Looks Like a Dream on Account of

the haziness and fade and I wish I could remember—recollect myself

that young. It’s impossible. There’s no one now who could explain

why I’m dressed up like a roaring lion when I’ve never been

good with wildness. My mother’s handwriting in the white space 

stating who I am but not where I stand. Maybe I wanted to feel

impressive, like everyone. Maybe I was pretending that I belonged to

the Kora Shrine Circus, its annual arrival announced in the paper 

most people got delivered—we wanted to know who made

honor roll and who had died. Sorry—who had passed away. 

There, that’s dreamier. More soft. An obituary is a record of a person’s

first and final places, where they were surrounded by loved ones.

The circus its own kind of softening: hapless clowns slipping into

flailed pratfalls, no harm done. The roaring lion turned tame.

Though I knew with certainty, even then, that it couldn’t be real:

Flailed pratfalls, no harm done. The roaring lion turned tame.

The circus its own kind of softening: hapless clowns slipping into

first and final places, where they were surrounded by loved ones.

There, that’s dreamier. More soft. An obituary is a record of a person’s

honor roll. And who had died? Sorry—who had passed away? 

Most people got delivered. We wanted to know. Who made

the Kora Shrine Circus? Its annual arrival announced in the paper:

Impressive! Like everyone, maybe I was pretending that I belonged, too—

stating who I am but not where I stand. Maybe I wanted to feel

good. With wildness, my mother’s handwriting in the white space:

Why? I’m dressed up like a roaring lion. When? I’ve never been

that young. It’s impossible—there’s no one now who could explain

the haziness and fade and—. I wish I could remember. Re-collect myself.