snowynight

We are prepared for evil.
In our fathers' voices
we smell the loose, wet earth on the shovels,
the wide pit
being dug.

We like in the movies where the prisoner in pajamas
stands before a desk
and repeats only name, rank, serial number.
With the tip of a fountain pen
we blue serial numbers
on our arms.

When our fathers talk to us
we hear a shovel
hit stone

The dull scraping of metal trying to dig
through rock.
First the wild guesses
of a blade
expecting softness underneath.
Then the tool's urgency,
its quickness to anger. Then metal
sparking
on a stone's oversimplifications.

Then the blue smoke
of a stone.

That is why we sleep with knives,
hide hard cheese and crackers in our covers,
a few dollars in a book.
That is why we leave our clothes on the floor
close to the bed,
why we never empty our pockets.
We are ready.