A sparrow got caught
in the stove vent.
I had a brother. Then
another. My father
cut a hole in the ceiling to let in
the sky. To let in another brother.
My mother bathed us
in a tin tub in the yard. I was
a junior safety patrol. I wore
a florescent orange sash.
The radio said something about
hostages. Something
about the Shining Path.
We believed we were living
in a time of peace.
I looked both ways.
I waved the other children
across. Popsicles dripped down
our arms, the color of nuclear sunset.
We slept in flammable pajamas.