The Roma have no words
for “read” or “write.”
The closest is to carve
or count, to sing or
tell fortunes from the palm.

Solitude, a symptom
or punishment,
not a luxury.
Never something chosen.

Survival is
to lie, and move—
not shifting, but caravan wheels.
Not deception,
but a better story
is more
true, really.

—JENNIFER LOVEGROVE

(Originally published summer, 2002.)