Maybe they will say I ran too quickly into the fire, that I got confused-
Thought hunger strike was politik but read the wrong manifesto,
thought green flash meant ocean not flint stone,
that my compass wasn’t true.
The problem is you think
you have time.
The problem is you think
too much or
not enough.
The problem was a map that redrew the lines for where the borders lay.
The problem was a book,
a doomsday prophecy with beautiful illustrations,
or a matrilineal fairytale,
or a fort in the living room,
a journey taken years too early,
a check written but not legible enough to cash,
and an empty bank.
The problem was a canyon,
and too many questions,
the problem was not enough flesh, the problem was
dirty breakfast plates,
blanket promises,
high temperatures,
night sweats.
The problem was that fucking suitcase, long strands of hair
found under the bed,
mixed in with the laundry, waiting to be read like tea leaves.