You're walking out of Mississippi
barefoot to save your shoes,
pavement baking callouses into your toes.
Fifty-three dollars in your pocket,
tucked behind a photograph
of the strangers you once called kin.

Sister, you keep on walking.
Sister, you keep on walking
home.
Even if you don't have one.
Even if it's gone.

You're spitting blood in downtown Nashville
locked behind a bathroom door,
too many shadows outside demanding to be let in.
Crawling out a broken window
scraping hands and knees on glass,
not stopping to pull the shards from your skin.

Sister, you keep on running.
Sister, you keep on running
hard.
Even if the bruises ache
Even if you have nowhere to go.

You're killing time until Seattle
back row seat on a worn-out bus,
chewing fingers to ignore the stomach pain.
Scratching poetry into the windows
by the light of passing cars because
sometimes the moon just isn't enough to see.

Sister, keep on writing.
Sister, keep on writing
dreams.
Even if they're nightmares.
Even if you wake up alone.

You're shivering in Canada
frozen stiff to a bar stool,
watching a man slide metal through his skin.
And then you're thawing by his heater,
trading off the secret of your name,
smiling for the first time since New Orleans.

Sister, you can stop hiding.
Sister, you can stop and take a
breath.
Learn how to trust the stranger.
Learn how to let him take you
home.

Sister, you're going home.