how could you
not know
she wanted to be found?
at the end of the street
sitting on her little
red suitcase
(she packed pictures of you)
hands under chin
fingers folded in defiance
so many candied revolts
in the absence of supper
hunger her antagonist
as, years later, she lay
splayed in the snow
visible from kitchen windows
rescued by legs
her own, folding underneath and
walking toward
home