A young woman sells everything
she owns from her mother’s driveway.
The whole neighborhood parts
their curtains just to shake
their heads and scoff at any resistance.
She learned to watch her thoughts
like children playing close
to a body of water, and in her
careful observation she found
she only cared about what she
could have.
Boxes of plastic combs and brushes,
dolls from when she was younger.
She cut the nostalgic lie that these
things were anything but weight
for her to carry or leave behind.
When there was nothing left
she walked out past the boundaries
of her upbringing in between
the gaps of contemporary developments.
Where the resilient worlds of long
before still existed to those
who traveled lightly enough
to find them.
Teleporting Typewriter 