The moment captured in the cruciform folds
of the faded photograph in my folio wallet.
Of when I was handed to her.
Wrapping my whole hand around her finger,
Developed after discharge from the delivery ward,
Before I was made a ward of state.
I never let go of that hand.
Some carry clovers or a rabbit’s foot.
I am luckier than most,
I still hold her hand as I cross the street,
Rent from her body laid six feet deep.