What Followed

Something was coming

to hold me in its mouth, and I

had got what I deserved. I never stopped leaving

saucers of milk on my doorstep. I lost

every game of hide-and-seek. I ran and

the scent of decades brushed my back. My back was not

unthreatening, having carried an entire diaspora

and Saturday’s groceries. In the woods

I lived in the space between

a face and a fist. In the house I left

a cheap chest of drawers, three

safety pins, and a fingernail clipping fallen

behind the vanity. In the kitchen

I saved a plate for what followed.