In another life, I want to be an orphan...
in another life,
i’d want to be an orphan.
i’d raise myself from the dirt,
with a torn sack hanging on
my right shoulder,
clutched within the grip of
my hand where should have
been the little finger of my father.
i’d drink the rain that slid off rusted tin,
gnaw on bread gone hard as stone,
and teach my own bones to stand
against the wind that bent every other.
i’d sleep beside the railway tracks,
counting each train as a sermon
to the places i’d never see,
letting their rumble press lullabies
into my ribs.
my name would be whatever
the street decided to call me,
and my god,
only the sun—
because it rose for me,
and for no one else.
and maybe then,
when hunger scraped my insides raw,
and the night curled cold around my spine,
i would learn the weight of a roof,
the mercy of warm bread,
the miracle of someone
remembering my name.
so i could learn the price of
every crumb before
i ever dared to call it mine.