this, then the next

life might be easier
if i were more beautiful
or taller or smarter or if
i had a calling for being
something other than
what i am

i wonder this too often

stand in front of mirrors
hoping to have things
a little easier
in the next life,
when i’ve forgotten
this one, who i was
and who i loved and
who i hurt, who betrayed me
and my own betrayals,

when i open my eyes and i’m a
child again and there’s no
memory of her eyes, or her laughter,
or her letters, or her lips, or
her skin, or her spirit, or her
smile, or her hands, or her mystery

to start from scratch again
knowing nothing and believing
(as only the young can) that
i know everything i need to know

yes, that will be sweet
to start all over again

once i find out
exactly how this one ends