THING WITH FEATHERS

Frederick Pollack

By now if she could see herself,
dirt-dry, hair greasy-grey, it would be
only a fact, like joints hurting.
Yet she remains (so hastily trained)
effective with the several salvaged
automatics: half the kills
on the upper levels were hers.
(Now in her margins she’s grateful
the cold draft from below keeps
their smell from following; imagines
that if we return they’ll be gone.)
The fact the lights remain on
is mysterious, like all power.
In the glare we look to her
(we like to think) like children
who are doing something stupid
and have stolen heavy things to do it with.
Descending the slimed stairs, past
their slogans, leapfrogging
halls, clearing rooms, we hear
her mutter. It sounds neither crazy
nor angry: a chant
perhaps concerning peace, food,
“relationships” (that strange old word
from above). When we encounter one
of them, she tries (we think)
to fire before surprise on that face
becomes hate-default.
We lose people. At the bottom,
no lights but a thick door
that wasn’t in our briefing.
Exhausted, someone whines, “What now?”
She takes C-4
from the pack of a man
who knew how to use it, says “Hope.”