They let us out that evening after we watched
the long night inside, flinching

at any hint of spark, glint, flash, and after
we missed the first decent day of spring

while leaf-broken sun stippled our duplexes
and helicopters outhummed the breeze.

Still, when they gave the word to summon
us back to the world, we came:

we were a swarm chasing our new queen,
we were a spill of river through a staved-in dam,

we were parishioners without a priest to greet,
unleashed down the slope toward our guards.

Once only six o’clock headlights,
neighbors became mirrors, dazed at our return

to ordinary time, then dazzled, exuberant
as if this silver sliver of the day

were a kingdom, its riches equally bestowed
upon all us monarchs, the ones unchosen

by violence. I swear to you we glowed
with our good fortune. Even the babies

seemed stronger, seemed to need us less.
And it lasted, we lasted, didn’t we—

until the first car screamed past at seventy
summoning the crackle that came next.

They didn’t have to tell us. Together
we gave the sycamores and street lights our backs,

we let the night shutter over our absence,
we disappeared from each other again.