We never traveled over bridges.
It was too dark under their skin.
The monsters wanted to attack.

Instead, we floated in airplanes,
propellers spinning like our heart,
as we counted clouds under us.

When we reached our destination,
we planted a flower for our birth
on this soil, as if we were brand new.

The natives would greet us
with burgers and fries, foreign
to our world, as well as taxis.

We remembered how we walked
everywhere, chewed on carrots.
Our blood rejected this alien food.

Soon we’d be told to sleep in a bed.
We felt nostalgia for hanging off
the ceiling, how we usually slept.

But soon the bats would return,
our dream friends, and we’d sweep
our world for insects and fruit.

There were no skyscrapers,
or monuments to anyone dead.
Everything stood for the living.