Our Notes Say—


Leave dates of entry, exit and all periods

of residency. We step from reception room


to interview room. It looks nameless because

it is nameless. Some notes ask if disease

caused—other forms refer to trauma.


The officers say, answer for yourselves,

without prompt. We acknowledge danger

everywhere. It feels nameless because


it is nameless. We cannot seem to move beyond years

of waiting rooms, ears given to ringing. We use our children

to measure time, generations fill in the page as aid field.


With each step, further into an enormous airplane hangar.

The light is dazzling. We cannot quite see it.


Emily Wolahan is the author of HINGE and her poetry has appeared in journals such as OmniVerse, Gulf Coast DIAGRAM and the Boston Review. She is a co-editor at JERRY Magazine and lives in San Francisco.