Times I’ve pretended to be lost.

1

My mother would walk Billy in the frog stroller

with me in her orbit. I asked her “Can I lead the way home?”

just to take the first wrong turn that I could

in the hopes that the walk could be longer

and that we might end up down a street

that unfurled into a gravel dead end.

Maybe there would be a honey suckle bush

waiting.

2

From a young age I had grown to consider supermarkets

as only a different play ground. Billy and I stole

the sliced cheese and nibbled on the corners

while hiding under racks of clearance bathrobes.

We were spies. We plucked fruit from the jungle–

crunched coffee beans under our feet in the aisles.

I loved it when they summoned my mother

over the intercom and I’d make believe that I had been scared

only to tell my mom as I lay on the bottom rack of the

shopping cart “I wanted to hear them say my name.”

She said, “Don’t do that again.”

3

In the woods by the creek Billy and I passed the brick house

that we convinced ourselves was haunted.

We’d stay the chain swaying from the ceiling

was used to hang someone. It was heavy dusk–

cold enough to puff our breath like dragons.

I said, “I don’t know which way is out

all the trees look the same.”

We rationed our oats and honey nature valley bars

until Billy started to cry.

I got up from the mildew log.

We were home in twenty-minutes.

4

I thought I was eighteen yesterday.

I thought I was twelve. I thought I was nine.

I thought I was seven.

I’m not sure how old I am or if it even matters.

I wanted to walk alone in New York City

and pretend.

I both wanted to walk

like I knew where I was going and get lost

at the same time.

I wanted to end up somewhere I’d never been

but enter the cafe like I was a regular who

the men in canvas aprons behind the counter

somehow neglected to remember.

Maybe I was a poet there– a salsa dancer

a vegan food truck chef taking a day

off to meet a boy she met in line

at the French bakery.

If someone would have asked my name

I imagined I would still would tell them that I was

“Sarah” because to them “Sarah”

could still be the poet or the salsa dancer

or the vegan food truck chef

not even sure if she remembered

the boy’s last name.

I want to get lost more

and find my way back to the home

tangled in my name

and in my notebook.