How my mother suffers
and how fatigued we've become;
too many years fugitive.
It is not her fault I fled
in a tornado, or that the
thousands of miles i put between
powerlessness and myself are the same
miles I put between her and
I.
It is not her fault I dream
in distance, hoping
I can boomerang flashlights to her
across the desert.
She is not the darkness.
My sister said,
"Even at the Lemon Tree,
I did not wish this on you,"
and her voice is citrus blossoms.
Measure the terror or uncertainty in
dollars and sense until you are children
like us. You will also champion the escapee.
But how my mother suffers
and how fatigued we've become;
too many years fugitive.
