Tiananmen Square, 1989

When you woke this morning
and put on your white shirt
and simple black pants,
when you tied your shoes
and walked out the door,
did you know your feet
would take you here
and fix themselves to that spot.

I saw the tanks before I saw you
from my window perch of the Beijing Hotel,
lumbering slowly forward, the metal
clank of the tracks the only sound
in the street, even the birds
have grown quiet

In your hand you hold
a white canvas sack, the content
of which I can only guess.
But I’m thinking it must be your
courage safely tucked away
or maybe just some vegetables,
fresh snow peas, some bread and fruit,
ingredients you will use for tonight’s
dinner, but I will never ask
and you will never tell
what it was exactly that
whispered sweetly like a lover
in your ear, directing you here.

Already the tanks have begun to move,
the way we do around an immovable object.
And I realize I’ve held my breath this whole time,
my lungs burning for fresh air.
I look away before seeing you go
and as far as I know you are still
standing there, your courage in hand
waiting for a change.