Your father kneels on the roof, cleaning
gutters while your mother
types letters to magazines
thanking them, and you
your bedroom, doors closed, humming all
birds in your head, in your shadows on the wall.
The woman you'll marry is talking politics,
silence, the war that is not quite
over the world
and the ones that are killing nobody
you've ever known, but you haven't met her yet.
She lives down the street. You won't touch her for years.