i turned 20 walking across the williamsburg bridge
with the fleur de lis
and my longest friend
and burned bridges, let things go at the foot
of an overpass at the end of the path
the wind flipped me open like a book and told me
that i will die alone
with the lilies of my aunt and the iron wrought
sun on my chest. sinking,
i will remember
to put the keys in my pocket
to let the crows guide me
to the waiting room
to lie to rest with my baby
and the fog of my hometown will
envelop me as i travel east
on the way back to brooklyn
where no pain has befallen me
i feel 50 in my bones and
like i have never lived within time
when i die i will whisper my name
to a child at the graveyard
and relieve mine of his duties
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