When I was five
I ran away from school
and got instantly,
hopelessly lost.

A shepherd dog barked
and a housewife
in curlers called
the police. Mute,

hair in a pixie-cut, I
was returned to West
Fresno Elementary
School. I can't

blame my mother
for not believing
my story, told in
jumpy fragments:

the thud of my heart,
the police car's
flashing lights,
the children's stares

as I stood, abashed, at
the kindergarten door.
After a long time
she understood.

By then, I'd memorized
our neighborhood's grid,
studied the methods of
migratory birds, watched

my father walk out
the door, the distance
between us widening
a little more each day.