Ohio, and I imagine her            walking the train line,
tracks narrowed in the distance.            Through her soles,
the platform’s slats. She feels            their unevenness
in the flats of her feet. Noon            day heat and the wool
of her jacket’s itchy.            She’s got a bob, it’s 1943
and the war’s on. No one            in the station looks
like her, but everyone’s            looking at her.
No explanation but the one            in government-issued print.
National Student Relocation            Council. Early Release.
The sentry in his watch-            tower, barbed-wire fence
and Stars and Stripes flapping            in the wind. From across
the tracks, a man (here,            imagination does the work
history’s lost) approaches, finger            bared, a blunt accusation.
Aren’t you a Jap? The long            explanation—why she’s out,
whose side she’s on.            The nations we pledge
at odds, leaving us to make            up the difference.
This story’s old, the woman            —dead, papers boxed
in a back closet. I’ve seen them.            Early Release.
The government-issued ID number.            In camp, it’s said, they cutgardens into Arkansas desert,            fixed rocks into the flat faceof the earth and irrigated            bean rows to feed their families.Healthy vines appeared            where none should havegrown; tiny buds coaxed            from the earth, tendrilsthat spooled runners            through dust.When the order came            to pack up and return
home, the authorities found            every curtain drawn
shut. Every barrack            floor swept clean.