We Transfer to Your Camp

The soldier wears a helmet shaped like a tortoise shell. 
He processes my papers. Tells me the reception hall 
is used for karate. On stage, I pick sagebrush off 
my clothes—waiting. All of us waiting 
for someone we haven’t seen 
since the FBI arrested them 
mowing the lawn, flossing their teeth. 
I spot you, Dad, through a window, peering in. 
The tops of your ears sunburnt. You look for us 
as you have for the last two years—digging 
in the desert sand, searching for rocks 
in the shape of our faces. I run to you. 
I stand in front of the window. 

Light explodes off your bald head.