When our people came flat-packed and hand-delivered, I wanted to look for you. To make sure you weren’t there. That the dog running circles outside my window was just a dog. That the man sat atop my lap, and the man sat atop his, would leave - when asked nicely. That America, with all its pride, would hand us back your mother, unchained. Some things are just between us. A search-party waving from the highway. The walk that takes you over the border, under the river. I searched for you there too. Made sure that when the Late-Night hosts said America they meant Guantanamo. Meant Operation Condor. H.A. Kissinger. To what extent do you blame catastrophe on your TVs hidden symbols? Every fifth word is an anagram for terrorists. My grandfather is holding a picnic outside Fort Bliss. Pushing a box cutter against his reclining chair, the sound of notches, underwater. Did you count twenty-three or do you resent demographics? Can you remember what the sky smelt like, when your parents would let you sleep on their floor? When our fathers were rough and silent, in pockets for years? I’ve been labelling my sadness. This one sounds like your mother, ten-thousand wind-chimes on your old bedroom frame. Waiting for you. To what extent can language just stay there - laughing back? I start the morning by chasing the dogs out. This one sounds like a ripcord.