Exiled

No warning.
You could take only
what you could carry. You left
the overstuffed chair with the orange throw,
the fiesta dishes your grandmother gave to you,
the letters and photographs,
the shelves full of books,
the garden with its abundance,
the orchard with its promises.
You grabbed some nuts from the cupboard and bread,
a bottle of water, a blanket.
At least you had each other you said
or maybe he said it.
That was before the first check point when they
made him get out of the car and
marched him away
and waved you on
until the next checkpoint when they
made you get out of the car
eyeing your body beneath the
skirt and blouse and the green sweater
you had pulled from the laundry basket on your way
out of the door because it was warm and his favorite.
Then they marched you away
into the cool darkness
pressing the sharpness of fear into your back
forcing you along a narrow path to a barn
where they waited
for their turn.
Boys
smoking and telling jokes,
boasting and gesturing.

The sun warmed your back
as you sat on the hillside
above the orchard
eating the sweetest peach
you thought could ever be.

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