Journey to Poston

                                                
                                                 pale desert sun . . .
                                                             what does the soldier care
                                                             about the birdcage
                                                             I forgot
                                                             to leave open?



                                                            mesas and buttes
                                                            rise up beyond
                                                            dusty bus windows―
                                                            our mouths too dry
                                                            to say the names



                                                            stuffing straw
                                                            into mattresses
                                                            we add sprigs
                                                            of desert lavender―
                                                            the Sonoran wind



                                                            he checks
                                                            my shoes for scorpions
                                                            every morning―
                                                            such is the way of love
                                                            in Arizona



                                                            the MP pretends
                                                            not to notice―
                                                            my boy sneaking back
                                                            into camp, tiny fossils
                                                            in his pocket



                                                            shikataganai―
                                                            it can't be helped:
                                                            moonlight
                                                            sparkling grit
                                                            on tarpaper walls

                                                                   Dedication:
                                                         Family of Lawrence Yatsu
                                                         Poston Relocation Center
                                                         Poston, Arizona, 1942-1945

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