The Archive Is All in
Present Tense

Librarians turn slender shadows in the afternoon light
gathering materials along the ledge. Three men exit
a Jeep on a hillside, doors slam in unison. Two orphans
walk into a dance for soldiers. Wind winters down
from the north. Concertina wire unspools
like fat loops of cursive, I’ve always wanted
a boyfriend like you, language making it impossible
for her to love me back, though no one could love
me now, preoccupied as I am by war, paging
arrest records, letters, diaries, clippings
in their acid-free envelopes. I sort through tea lights,
radio crackles, paper fortune-tellers predicting the man
who will marry you, what house he will buy
you, paper turning to snow in her hands
folding, unfolding.