Gaman: Topaz Concentration Camp, Utah

after Tina Takemoto

I will paint us together

in lemon and burnt shoyu.

I will squeeze us out of

flour, water, yeast

while you dress

behind the thin curtain

while you flatten

lapel, collar, slacks

in our tightly ironed

tar paper life.

Your tie clip, carved from

ancient wood and not

the real topaz you deserve.

Outside, we shuffle in dust

flap powder

from between our feathers.

I used to be a swamp.

In this government aviary

dust storms can’t be predicted

unlike the government

which splits atoms

the way it did your chest.

Spilled you

on the ancient sea bed.

The mountains blow

their alien breath in you

while sleek muscle men

cactus across my humid eyes.

They don’t stop

to light my cigarette

or palm a slice of

fresh, warm bread.

Now bluebirds trill

from my cuffs

and it’s time to clock out.

Beyond the perfect

frame of this prison city

desert peaks buzz

the rich, rich song

of my hunger.