this place smells

like hand-rolled-cigarette smoke

burning, burning

up and down the walls:

my walls

the small-girl walls he leans against

giving credit

to his big-man feet.

When we are born

they give us maps

& the maps

show us how to escape

from burning things.

They lead us to the muster point

while the girls, the girls

retrace in red

the lines of swift avoidance

& again in a color of no one’s choosing

& another

& another again.

It is not important

for us to remember

what needs

escaping from

only that someday

we can.