i cut my teeth

on the boardwalk

where a girl and her mother

walked in long dresses.

the way the linen flowed

from their shoulders

to their calves

reminded me why i breathe.

i broke a bottle

in a back alley

in the right neighborhood

on the wrong side of town.

i wrote a letter

never meant to be read

by some damned harlot

with unforgiving eyes.

i took the pill

without looking back

except to see

who was following.

i cut my teeth

on the corner of dodge

and south alice

so i would remember to breathe.