Before The Answer

“Why do you say
don’t talk to strangers,
Mammy,
when you said good morning
to that lady?

Do we know her?
Is she our family?”

Before I answer,
I think of all the lines
we draw.

Our people.
Other people.
Who belongs.
Who waits outside
the door.

If heaven is above us
and hell below,
is earth
the space between—

or are we?
How would we know?

How much of either
can we put
into another person’s day?

A word that draws them closer.
A glance that turns away.

I search for words
that will keep her safe
without making the world
a door
we must keep closed.

She is still watching
the woman walk away.

“She looked happy
when you smiled.”

I look again.

“We don’t know her, love.
We can be kind
and careful.”

She takes my hand
and waves again.