In Another Life

We'd be shoveling 
dirt at dusk, after 
the last of the mourners 
depart. Pulling up nets 
filled with ripple and jolt, 
hoping for enough. 
Tunneling through a crowd, 
its pulse lined with smoke 
and cries, looking for an exit. 
Fugitives. Leftovers of war; 
trophies or spoils. Gifts 
to cruel gods—chained to rock, 
bound in water. In another life 
we'd be burnished and striped. 
Separated. Weighed and marked. 
A teat in the mouth of someone's 
child. We'd be the sepia-stained 
blank in the ledger that survived.