Every Leaf is a Message, Every Feather a Map

Everything was already happening
         in the countries of our future,

where fishermen had been unloading 
         their catch since dawn.

What could be carried was threaded 
         through and butterflied; 

the rest were taken in carts 
         to the market and sold 

to the highest bidder. Meanwhile, 
         the courts filled with judges 

in robes as white as their hair. 
         There were always two sides in every 

hall: all along one sat the mothers 
         and daughters and wives. On the other, 

the mayors and governors or heads
         of state, trying not to show 

their fear or loathing or liking 
         of war. We were in the streets 

as always; or in between homes.
         We wrote chronicles of our dead

and massacred, our exiled and un-
         lawfully detained. We painted their 

pictures, dropped boats and ladders 
         into songs. Everything we did, we 

were trying to do for our future selves: 
         we dreamt of how we'd take possession 

of the gates and hold them open, 
         setting birds free with our hands.