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.
