i.

the crane outside my office
window spins its long arm
like an autonomous second hand.
alone at my desk I let
Touré’s crooning slip
liquidly into my chest
like burning tea.
I wonder what sits there –
the size and shape of the cage
I’ve constructed around
the wounded animal of my knowing.
in Gaza children have been
told to flee for their lives
and in my belly a poppy
seed-sized life is taking shape.
I take stock of sunlight searing my desk
and my breath, shallow and tight
over images of the bombings.
the long steel arm swings,
and I don’t dare speak.

ii.

my body has identified
a section of unreadable code.
scrambled instructions.
the system is rebooting.
I bleed into my underclothes
while drinking white wine,
while the emcee at the
literary gala cries, drunk,
about the beauty of libraries
& democracy & freedom,
supporting our allies.
from where we sit
in this austere hall,
small chunks of
salmon perched
lifelessly on china plates,
we cannot hear
the bombs falling.
what doesn’t make
sense cannot root.
for a handful of days
I was pregnant,
and now I’m not.
I drain my glass. 
I feel grateful for
my body’s checks and balances.
it’s not like democracy.
my body is authoritarian.
someone should give her a
history book. even the
drugstore pregnancy test
knew before I did,
its second line melting
away midweek as if
erased by an invisible
hand. the code
is all around us,
but you have to know
how to read it.

iii.

the system cries.
it doesn’t make sense
to root these days, but
children have a right.
children have rights and history.
from where we sit
we know how to read it.
the code is austere.
as a child I was told this story:
Gaza & freedom,
the size and shape of burning.
it’s not democracy.
now that the second hand has
made so many revolutions,
can you hear it?
have you dared to speak?