what we should do: flashlights,
water, condoms, and a shot
of our imaginary son. Only, what we used to call our
peeping birds startled me into starting days
long before the city bus commenced its run.
That's when I knew we hadn't done enough
in case the sky fell while I was driving,
and I packed a pair of panties, matches,
some aspirin in the trunk. After we stopped
making breakfast plans (the pecking
woke me early and by breakfast
I was always eating lunch), I secreted
in my office that little blue box:
trail mix, shekels, and seed to plant
after the revolution was over
and done. I made sure we remembered
where we planned to meet, taught us
to swim in case we came near water
when it decided to flood. But those damned birds
with their nesting scattered on the patio
were eventually the most reliable alarm
and, only to level the threat, I fashioned a carry-all
from the pillowcase I no longer slept on.
I filled it: tinned meat and crackers, chocolate,
a little musk so I can recall
how we smelled before this end was begun.
Written by Camille Dungy
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