my heart sits, wrapped tight    
in a newspaper headlined:    
bomb kills 27 in palestine,    
below her stained frenchies.    
(and beside it, the tiny,     
soapy-blue ditty box thing    
i bought from from a thrift store    
in monterey last friday,    
holds four used garfield    
band aids from the paper cuts    
she got from the cigarette-    
burnished edges of usa today.)    
she manage to fit everything    
in an army surplus backpack,    
that sort of faded olive-drab.    
(reminds me, where she sneezed    
into one of the napkins    
where i drew the view: new year,    
in the morning, at the cafe.    
which now peered out from    
one of the oversize pockets,    
near the yellow tube of carmex.)    
the tag around the shoulder straps    
reads:  flight 1209 to athens.    
and there s a sticker that says:    
fragile. please do not drop.    

hmmm.    
too late for that.    


exodus    
3/96