92.

I have it.

Went and got it.

Brought it back.

Even though

Momma isn’t home I

stick that old diary

under my shirt and

head to my room.

I am so afraid,

I think I can’t

take a step.

If Momma found out

I’ve known all along . . .

if she knew about

the breaking and entering

though no one has moved

into our old place

and Momma has gone

there herself before

for the diary

and for things

we need

like a couple of pots

and sofa pillows.

If Momma knew . . .

Just say,

I speak to myself

as I walk fast to my room,

just say that you

found it

when we were moving.

Say that you were planning

on giving it to her.

Not that you walked

back for it.

Not that you dragged

cinder blocks into

the house

until there were

enough to peek

(and then saw it

wasn’t in the

attic

which meant one big ol’ thing.)

In the doorway of my bedroom

I stop.

Now what?

Now what?

Now what?

My mind plays the words fast

so they become one big word

one long word that won’t end.

Nowwhatnowwhatnowwhat?

Where do I hide this thing?

I’m whispering,

panic clawing up

my throat.

I move all over my room, looking

for the right place,

the safe place.

And for some reason,

with that diary,

I know there’s no safe place.

None.