R. Wood Lynn
Psalm for the Haters in the Back

As a child, I read once about
            a criminal on the run so long

she forgot her own name, forgot
            even that she was on the run at all;

no one more surprised by her
            capture in the end than herself.

It was the sort of thing I didn’t
            believe was possible but

also the sort of thing I figured
            would probably happen to me.

Maybe it already has. Here I am
            not counting down the days until

the cops show up and kick these doors
            down in the name of someone else’s law.

When that time comes, when the front door
            swings off its hinges, I hope I know what to do

like so many sea turtle hatchlings
            squirming towards an ocean,

a lost dog breaking into a run when it
            hears its name for the first time in years.