when you know it's time

throw your phone in the river.

steal clothes from anonymous stores.

keep your hood up.

don't drive a car with plates,

buy the ticket in your grandmother's name,

use those gift cards that look

like everyone else's plastic.

(everyone remembers

the chick with the wad of cash.)

live under the table,

off the footage

in the minutes they erase every night.

learn to tell one good joke,

and move on after the punchline.

destroy what begs you to stay.

when the flutter comes

to your belly, quick and insistent

and unmistakable,

brew the herbs.

find the wire, fashion a hook,

throw yourself down the stairs.

stash your bloody clothes

somewhere the dog won't find.

remember what your ancestors knew

about water, how they broke the scent trail

at every creek and river,

dragged themselves through mosquito bogs

and high grass,

remember how they prayed

with blood on their necks

and hoofbeats at their shadows.

you don't need the stars

to flee, this time.

when you say he doesn't own you,

they'll believe you.