We grab the bags, half filled,
again. Let the shame we own
shade us as we run.
In the night, women whisper
about the diameter of the bruises
and extent of their captivity.
Do you remember, can you imagine.
The phone rings, the boy sounds rescue calls
into my ears. His hands throwing this terrible
back at me. How do you comb trauma
into his hair? How do you refuse it?
We pack bags furiously, with flawless precision.
Essentials, everything else can be acquired.
She jokes that we resemble gitanos. We
don’t laugh, respectfully understand,
we don’t have a home; bags spill
out our foundation, Nina singing
‘Either Way I Lose,’ in my head, as I throw
away my chance to pretend regular.
Silly refrain in the background––why
can’t we clank tea cups, laugh softly?
are cut from metal
and we don’t drink tea.
Image Credits: Flickr: Sjoerd Lammers