CURLS Poem by Nyk de Vries

There was a photo of me doing the rounds. But it wasn't me. Whenever I was confronted by that picture, I would quickly turn the page, disturbed by those strange, unfamiliar eyes. Years passed. During the summers we'd practise in Ursula's renovated farmhouse. Jan Switters took us on tour in the former Eastern bloc. The last time I spoke to Anneke was during the farewell concert. More than a decade later, in a small bar not far from the ferry, I was leafing through a bunch of old clippings when I stumbled upon that portrait. Only then did I realise. That guy with the strange eyes and all those curls. It was me after all.