When I first came here it was the bell jar, placed down firmly right over my head.
This isn't your place.
You can stand here but you can't come in
and you will be seen
Time passed, and as I grew bolder and learned new tricks
the glass walls grew thinner until they were pliable
nothing more than an impermeable film between me and the world
like a sleeve of plastic
You can come close and move against it
but you're still in quarantine
a foreign body.
You can move in the streets and you can touch the people
but these are not your woods
this is not your spring.
Now years have passed.
Even plastic breaks down.
When I smell the lilac bushes in bloom
I know it's my smell
and when I jump from rock into sweet water
I know it's my lake
and my sea.
Text: Ina Wood Foto: Angelica Tibblin Chen
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