To lick his wide soft feet and upturned palms
wounded and weak, I'd like him to be frank
with his fear, but he's furtive and shuffling
as if approaching verboten subjects
in the night, dressed to avoid
crowds, we move with shadows in alleyways
our secrets stuffed in our knapsacks, but
we like the inevitability of things left behind,
waiting with patience or enraged chained to the
potential of a subject in an unopened book
that both is and is not what you want it to be
like our mothers with all their complications
he's a knotted ribbon, turning into
A supplicant like me, awoken now