The Other City

In the other city,

I left my family.

All my neighbors pity

how I stare so calmly

out my window. Across

the river, the other

city sleeps like a lost

child. They’ll wait another

year or ten or hundred

to leave. There was a boat;

I took it. Now I’m dead

to them. I donned my coat

and now I have more food

than I’ve ever eaten.

My youngest brother stood

up to police, was beaten.

I’d read the paper for

the other city’s news,

if only there were more

than body counts. I choose

to write letters that can

never be sent, to waste

afternoons making plans

that are moot. I can taste

my grandfather’s cooking

in my dreams. Deliver

them, Lord—I am looking

across a wide river.