Three Versions of the Self: A Pantoum by Ember Jones

One by one, step by step.

I think that you could conquer the world like this,

those dark, lustrous vines crawling towards the light,

though you are smaller than you will ever be.

I think that you could conquer the world like this,

just you and your notebook and the things you claim as your own.

My dear, though you are smaller than you have ever been,

you stare down the black shadow of the future, unmoving,

just you and your notebook and the thoughts you claim as your own.

Do you feel the weight that the world presses on you

as you stare down that black, unmoving shadow?

I wonder where you found that courage, little girl.

You feel the weight of the world on your shoulders

and still you stand. Are you yet unsteady?

I wonder where you found that tenacity, little girl.

I did not make it for you—

so how do you still stand so unsteadily?

I slept and woke, and in the morning you were changed.

I know that I did not give it to you, though I wish I had,

this strange new fire, burning foolishly inside your chest.

I slept and woke and you were changed.

My dear, I grow slowly, gradually towards the light,

so unlike this strange, foolish new fire burning within you,

so unlike the little girl you used to be, idle and muted.

I reach for the light slowly and gradually, and

you are someone I won’t be for years—

so unlike who I am now, muted and idle.

I want to love you. I admire how you take up space.

But you are someone I won’t be for years yet,

though quiet and smaller than I will ever be.

I’m coming to love you, and to admire the space you will take up

because I know that you could conquer the world like this,

even though I am smaller than I have ever been.

We’ll just take things one by one, step by step.

You could conquer the world like this.

Dark, lustrous vines crawling towards the light.