Never the children we wanted to be, we ran away, sat on porches, hobos holding sticks with makeshift bags attached. Unable to stop the arguments, we left, returning only when hunger crept too close. Huddled alone, salt in our mouths, our throats— a telltale taste infecting the clothing that would cotton to a weakness. Too numb to return a boxed ear, hard pinch, the tickling torture of relatives. Some of us began to learn like peasants, all over again- the counting, the amulet of red beads. Evil, when kept at bay, seemed almost good. Then rain wet us through to the heart and we grew up. A big wind came, trees blowsy, unfettered, their branches lifting as if to reveal, beneath green skirts, what it was had to be hidden from all the eyes.