washed and shined and ready for soaring
in the wind from San Francisco Bay,
near where we sunbathed and the armed forces
expedition landed suddenly—practice maneuvers.
I would pack practice maneuvers for negotiating
the forest of pens, the broken stubs of pencils
behind the ears of elderly men who won’t calm;
won’t sit or rise but remain pressing their thumbs
in their ears keeping out the wandering words
of refugees. From the academy I would pack
the stones that were in her pockets when she drowned,
weighted down under the Christmas tree branches
baubled with angel dust. I would pack a bit of ice
in a baggy zip-locked for tear gas. For the tears
of the child who didn’t make it. I would pack the words
to ask why we don’t want to save each other.
I would pack the hawk’s feather.
