Canned Food Drive

We lived in the lucky world—

not the far place where flies

sipped at eye corners

of children too weak to cry.

A camera showed that world to us

on posters. But we were children.

We wanted most to not be those

others, with their terrible bones.

We spoke of them wide-eyed, with

what we thought was tenderness.

But our words came in a different register,

as if to speak of such betrayal

by the grown world could bring

a harm of great immensity

upon us too. We got to choose

from the cupboard. We gave

what we hated—beets, peas,

mushrooms. Our dreams

were not of rice. The moon

laid light on our bicycles propped

against the porch. Sycamores

became our giants standing guard;

the overgrown shrub, our fort. We thought

we understood what was required.

Even crouched beneath our desks

during drill, we said one prayer

for the fear, one for recess.

McClellan Air Force Base

sent forth big-bellied planes

that rattled the windows

of our houses. Evenings, we took

to the streets shrieking

with joy, rode madly fast

around the block. We collapsed

on the lawn breathless, the earth

cool beneath us & pounding hard,

as if it had one great heart.

As if it was ours.