Pantoum Beginning and Ending with Thorns

^{After Reena Saini Kallat’s “Woven Chronicle”}

Because of the way a border on a map twists into thorns
my father stood in line in a ruined country with ruined men.
We were footnotes on charred parchment. The boundaries, lost
at the precipice of a war, shifting on the hour in spliced histories.

My father stood in line in a ruined country with ruined men,
and what for? Did he imagine the desert he would bring us to?
At the precipice of a war, shifting on the hour in spliced histories,
the call to leave home throbbed inside him. Urgent pulses—

And what for? Did he imagine the desert he would bring us to?
Its thirsty and abandoned towns? There was a fire spreading within—
the call to leave home throbbed inside. Urgent pulses
crossed and uncrossed like tributaries on freshly inked maps.

In thirsty and abandoned towns, there was a fire spreading within
so he took us away because the country was ruled by swords
which crossed and uncrossed like tributaries on freshly inked maps.
And the guns would sound all night like feast days of saints.

He took us away because the country was ruled by swords
and men emblazoned with chevrons and pins.
And the guns would sound all night like feast days of saints
but really, there was more silence. There was worry and fear

And men emblazoned with chevrons and pins
would draw black X’s over places they’d conquered.
Really. Then more silence. Then worry and fear.
The flies would sing their hymnals in procession around the dead.

The black X’s over places now conquered.
Maps of provinces, cities, family lines drawn and redrawn.
The flies singing their hymnals in procession around the dead
and my father with a ticket to flee because home wouldn’t let us stay.

Maps of provinces, cities—family lines drawn and redrawn
into travelogues and diaries. Into stories passed in the night
like my father with a ticket to flee because home wouldn’t let us stay.
Hum of the plane engine. Hum of idling car. Hum of the outboard motor.

Into travelogues and diaries. Into stories passed in the night,
we were footnotes on a charred parchment. The borders lost
to the hum of planes, of idling car, hum of the outboard motor
because of the way the line on a map twists into thorns.