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.