We were just beginning.
The constant growth nagging 
at our legs told us to run. 
We thought little of lives 
hundreds of miles away, only 
of the rhythm of running 
and our gentle starlight guides.
When it was my turn, I ran
like hell. I was my grandfather, 
hopping the fence of a Nazi 
labor camp in a land he didn’t
know; I watched my back
like my father overstaying 
his American visa. I did not 
yet know my body or the doors
it held open, only the white-hot strain 
of my calves. The gentle kiss of mud.
I wanted cuts and bruises.
I wanted to feel my skin 
in the game. The backyard porch
—land of the free—guarded 
by two cops holding flashlights, 
while the rest of us snuck through 
bushes until the beam’s cold hand
touched and forced us to sprint 
for our lives. I hated being the cop, 
the weight of flashlight in hand,
knew from somewhere deep
I was the villain. I’d amble
in the backyard, hope to find
nothing. And even when some
small movement skimmed the night, 
I’d let the runners go, ditch
my flashlight in the thick grass. 

                                               My targets at the porch 
                                               sprouted wings, soared 
                                               into the suburban stars.