If you don’t have a dog
your neighbor will not poison it

and if you don’t have a home
you will not have to run from it

when your father’s anger shakes the walls
that don’t exist because you don’t have a home

to grow up in—nowhere to learn
that the husband you won’t have

will not leave you for another woman
will not walk out your door one morning—

because you won’t have a door
for anyone to leave or enter through

and you won’t have a window
for anyone to see you

and if you don’t make plans
they will not need to be changed

like the diapers you won’t change
since you won’t have a child

who will never change your life
whose tiny fingers you will never hold
because of how hard you never wished
and planned her away so many times

and she will not grow up to hate you
for everything you never did

as if you didn’t have a child—and she won’t learn
that if you don’t have a memory

the past will not devour you
when you stop moving for a brief

moment. Long enough to let the sorrow
catch the joy you never feel because you

don’t want to feel the sorrow
its companion. And if you don’t feel—

there will be nothing left to heal.