Prisoner of War Camp, Pine Grove Furnace

When I came into the clearing and saw

the trees empty, I knew

I was hungry. You can want a thing so badly

you’ll take it dead. Instead

I found a rose tightly sheathed, an aqueduct

made by prisoners of war—P.O.W. 5 22 45

carved into cement, I had to put a finger

in the mossy furrow

to read it. Somewhere toward the center of the camp

stood a desolate fountain pieced with blue

quartz they must have gathered

over time. I prayed once

to see a hummingbird—heart’s motor, flesh-

lantern burning—and when I found

one in the crabgrass I had to hold it in my

hand and tilt my wrist for the light to catch the

gold in its vermillion feathers.