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i remember the indian
who sat on the stoop
at that apartment
behind the wall,
the one near the highway,
next to where they put him in jail,
the one we moved too with maryam
after the accidents and the yelling
finally calmed down.

she’d sit with her knees tucked to her chin,
rocking back and forth
a frail nervous leaf skittering on shallow puddles
we all knew were evaporating by the second.

we moved so many times,
that we never grew accustomed to roots.
we moved so many times,
it became hard to know how to be a we.

i was full of cloistered prayers
i never believed in and barely knew
how to sing, ask, or demand.
i never learned the right verb for prayers.

now i’m all empty pockets
with the linings ripped out,
so everything rattles around inside
like a dirty jar.

even the pickpockets
can’t make sense of this mess
inside.