that the handbook of life had
been lost to the fire before I was
born,
torn asunder
by the parents who
could not love
one another without
drawing knives,
I may have just turned
around and
headed back,
saving myself an entire life to here,
digging holes trying to find
the instructions for
living and
paying special attention to the
words of others who have
walked across the Mohave without
water,
lived on nuts and berries in
the Sierras,
fashioned shoes out of tires
shredded by 18 wheelers climbing
The Grapevine.
Growing old on earth
vanquished that child in me to
the shadows for survival
with all of her dreams glistening
and bejeweled like
diamonds in the rough.
