13
Sit next to each other
around a feral fire and feel
our tongues grow fat
and twisted when everyone
else gets up to leave.
Arrested by night,
we look up and confess
we've been holing up
in the same hideout.
We are mad cartographers of the
same landscape, trailing off
the edges of a shared
treasure map.
We can cash in the cyanide
and shred the papers.
Disregard the exit signs.
Throw away the prison stripes
and forge an opening
through metal bars that held us
in adjoining cells.
Recognize each other as tribe
because we've traveled so long
as gypsies with no country.
Let's curl up all our
collected years of
want and conceit
in an empty safe
and sleep for a year.