and the opaque square
\nin the top right flickers, a live<\/p>\n
stamp of inky blackness
\nthat reminds him of the ultrasound video<\/p>\n
\u2014good god\u2014of his sister\u2019s\u2026that cone of dark,
\nthe sudden milky appearance of his niece<\/p>\n
(a girl, they were convinced) her arm
\nso thin he touched his own as if in<\/p>\n
allegiance. And as the scattered
\nsatellite signal reconstitutes itself,<\/p>\n
the Swat valley unfolds
\nunder the slick eye<\/p>\n
of the MQ-9 Reaper, unleashing a laser-guided
\nHellfire missile toward Koza Drushkhela.<\/p>\n
The camera eye trembles from the blast below
\nbut doesn\u2019t shut off. Most of these<\/p>\n
feeds were running last week
\nwhen he checked Etsy for the baby shower<\/p>\n
(yellow onesies, slings, a receiving blanket) meaning the dissolution of uninteresting and in his head there lies cache of concealed pics, as tightly sealed who can\u2019t speak about what she sees to the doctor, though the scan of motion. Which at first, it did. waving to a world she doesn\u2019t know afraid of inertia rises up in him and the cam re-sets and blanks into and he closes he eyes and somewhere in that debris, in that dust\u2014 is birthed. Enough. A sour reek of jockstraps rises muted laughter, which stand them his shaved head and wigs it and how one wrote in a letter, or just take a puck for the pre-game practice of the Montreal Canadiens a frequent flier in a tall suit, and says, Look at those monkeys! <\/em> fumblier, rubber- \u2014even saying nothing\u2014 The cap flicking past. each of us inch our suitcases and bags, in front of the X-ray machines, and she looks up toward us, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n DEGAN DAVIS<\/strong>‘ poetry and non-fiction have appeared in The Globe And Mail<\/em>, The Malahat Review<\/em>, Riddle Fence<\/em>, and The New Quarterly<\/em>. What Kind Of Man Are You<\/em>, his first book, is forthcoming from BRICK in 2018. He is currently working on a collection of essays about masculinity, femininity, and how to be a good man in this era.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Edward Snowden watches the corner of his monitor and the opaque square in the top right flickers, a live stamp of inky blackness that reminds him of the ultrasound video \u2014good god\u2014of his sister\u2019s\u2026that cone of dark, the sudden milky… Continue Reading
\nrevealing what the Agency calls collateral damage<\/em> bombing,<\/p>\n
\nor unthreatening limbs<\/em>,<\/p>\n
\na medical textbook-sized <\/p>\n
\nas the lips of a sonographer,<\/p>\n
\non the screen, must defer <\/p>\n
\nmay reveal a distinct lack<\/p>\n
\nUntil his niece\u2019s fingers began pointing,<\/p>\n
\nexists\u2014and now something relentlessly <\/p>\n
\nas the drone circles back to Panjshir province, <\/p>\n
\na liquid landscape\u2014<\/p>\n
\ninto the blackened kaleidoscope of his sister\u2019s baby\u2014<\/p>\n
\nas the static clears, a moment<\/p>\n
\nThe word enough<\/em>.<\/p>\nMonkeys<\/h1>\n
\naround the Double-A team at airport security,
\nand I smile at the young men\u2019s
\ncamaraderie, their easy<\/p>\n
\napart as a small country that believes in itself.
\nOne guy grabs another\u2019s cap\u2014
\nMy bloody lucky toque!<\/em>\u2014clean off<\/p>\n
\nup and away into the cavernous
\nairport firmament to tribal cheers, and I think of
\nWorld War One and how bored the men were <\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m looking for anything to happen<\/em>; and how sometimes
\nI\u2019m looking for anything to happen\u2014yearning
\nto risk my life,<\/p>\n
\nno other reason than perhaps Brotherhood.
\nAs they yip and pitch the cap back and forth
\nI recall P.K. Subban leading <\/p>\n
\nin Buffalo, cannoning the puck at near-
\nimpossible angles into the net, an ecstatic
\ngeometry. When all at once <\/p>\n
\nsleek trench-coat draped over his arm,
\nleans in, comradely, motions
\nto the two black women at the security desk<\/p>\n
\nAnd I feel something like a reversal
\nof falling in love. My body
\nsuddenly skinnier, <\/p>\n
\nchicken-like among
\nthe assembled Adonises,
\nwhere even an eyebrow raised<\/p>\n
\nwill name me conspirator\u2014
\nand I hear myself say, Monkeys?<\/em>
\nMy voice small. Does he even hear it? <\/p>\n
\nMonkeys?<\/em>
\nHe jerks back. Someone up the row
\nmoves. And one at a time<\/p>\n
\n\u2014our human cargo
\nof eye-masks, pajamas, Cialis, sleeping pills\u2014
\ntoward the two women<\/p>\n
\none now frowning down over an open laptop,
\nher gold hoop earrings
\nlike rogue Olympic rings,<\/p>\n
\ntells us to lift our cases to the rack
\n\u2014leave any liquids and aerosols,
\nor sharp objects\u2014and come forward.<\/p>\n
\n
\n