was a caravan of gypsies without country—
rucksacks of clavicle, of salt-licked crimson,
slivers of silvered skin crossing palm,
a faded deck of tarot, fingertipped and risking
the upturned card of fool.
Every border crossing claimed a changeling,
that twitched with every touch
of othered skin.
Was I the stolen child or were you?
We were too tangled to tell.
The gypsies passed and cast a tarantella to our bones.
In the morning they are searching for a homeland.
In the morning we trace their tracks like reading braille,
like telling fortunes,
like the newly baptized wanting so much