Summer, 2002 / 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.