Pockets

The mountains kept us like wads of chew
in their caves, holding us while our villages
smoldered, while our hearts gained strength to return.

But we should have known they could not keep us
forever. If you pour seed in a pocket, the birds
find it eventually. Yesterday they came.

This war has shaken us out of our mountains
and torn off our shirt-pockets. Now we have
no room for orphans, for hope or for hunger.

A pocket is a hollow comfort, as it cannot
bear laughter or rain or the shade of a tree.
These are the things we cannot live without.

Love Triangle

The girl is eight or nine—gladly plump,
maybe from daily ice cream cones or snacks
balled neatly in a crevice of her blue backpack;
her pleated skirt flounces to her little jumps.

The father grips her hand like that strung balloon
he won with darts at the greasy county fair;
he loved its gentle tug, he loves her hair—
dancing with static, gleaming with the moon.

And then there’s the chihuahua, a curled and mottled
crescent shelved on her chubby arm,
snug as a shooter marble pinned by a sticky thumb.
The dog glides over the sidewalk like clouded
skies running after a stray balloon, like that one crumb
of crusty bread the ant army carries home.