The Poems


From the Summer, 2002, issue 

(No. 8)

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.