“…if like a cab you could go backward” by Christopher Sanderson

I grew around it,
This point on my back,
I think of it/and I feel it/as being smack between the very bottoms
Of my shoulder blades/but it isn’t.
Je vois mon dos comme une feuille de papier, à plat.
This point is/really very near the top of my shoulder blades.
You see? I grew around it.
Tiny, it is the size I think of myself/indistinct… foggy.
Un point sur un morceau de papier.
I look at the wall and guess my height
Across the room. Je marche à reculons.
Walking over, my finger touches that imaginary dot/
Much lower than my head is:
I grew around it.
When I press weights, I hold them much too high/
/perfect for this place/Est-ce que ce sont les poids que je choisis de porter?
I grew around it.
I have long arms from there/Sont-ils des bras ou des griffes?
Little child stretched/.
That’s privilege for you/Tout le brouillard n’est pas mauvais.
I’m tall, so I never think about height.
I grew around it
It’s left me thinking I’m short
Without knowing.
Deux points définissent une ligne.
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