Page 124 of Wayfarers

that it wasn’t the way of the world

for the powerful to absorb the losses

they could so easily afford without shifting

them to those who lived on the knife’s edge.

I couldn’t look that man

in the face again. I couldn’t risk him

recognizing me and calling me by the name

I’d earned—Thief—in front of Sylvie.

I couldn’t be in his presence

knowing the pain I caused

his spirit and body, my own broken arm

the karmic badge of my dishonor,

just like the psychic said.

Shame pricks at me like

thorns, drawing stripes

of blood on my skin, like

someone who ran through

the woods too fast, without a care

as to who he hurt.

I burn the location

of the gas station into my memory

like a convict’s brand. One day

soon that man will receive

an envelope in the mail

containing $233 in cash

and a note, which will read:

I’m sorry. I wronged you

in another life. I hope

your arm healed true. Please

forgive me.