I.

—1984

There was

though

that one balloon

untied

from the rest

and released into

the waiting hands

of a boy who smiled

and purposely let

the string go

into the sky,

into the hovering silence,

just to watch

the balloon float.

II.

—2001

That child grew up to be a soldier.

Into his waiting hands, they passed a gun.

Into the sky, he passed unnoticed.

“No strings attached,” they said.

III.

—2002

Heather has tied red balloons to the back of my chair.

Happy Birthday, she says, and hands me a paper dandelion.

Blow on it and make a wish.

We’re lucky we have power in the classroom.

Most of Buffalo is dark today and the streets,

the power lines, the trees are covered in thick ice.

The P.A. system announces an early dismissal

and we stand to say the pledge of allegiance.

My students are especially agitated this morning.

Are they thinking, like me, what bullshit

it is to pledge the flag every morning?

Do they notice that I just go through the motions?

That I am soundlessly moving my mouth

to someone else’s script?

A few streets over, a Baptist church holds a funeral

for a soldier killed “by accident” in Iraq.

I can hear the bells ringing.

I imagine rows of mourners standing to pray.

We commit to the ground our eyes.

We commit to the ground the lies

they’ve heaped on top of us, the promises

they didn’t make let alone keep for us.

Is it an accident that Heather, age eleven,

raises her left hand instead of her right

and covers her empty breast?

Is she thinking, like I am,

about the layers of ice outside,

what it means to lose herself,

to slowly melt and float free?

IV.

—2006

Balloons bearing witness

to another birthday passed

come from nowhere,

from the sky,

into my backyard.

A dozen balloons tied

like an unbeatable ribbon,

a fallen rainbow,

descend and get tangled

in the small tree

we planted

near the fence last summer.

Its branches stiff and empty,

now full of color

and the endless repetition

of the words

Happy Birthday

like a scarf

around my throat.

I leave the balloon bouquet

flapping in the winter wind

until a few days later

a stray dog

reminds me of its presence

as she barks at it from afar,

a threat.

I open the sliding door

and cross the frozen patio

in my bathrobe.

I begin to untie the balloons

from the tree,

scraping my hands

on its jagged branches,

my bare feet

crunching on old snow.

Once extricated

I carry the balloons

to the garage

and stuff my helium nest

into a trash can.

It overflows.

I try to force the lid on

like a zipper.

No luck.

I grab a pair of scissors

and start stabbing at the balloons

because I know, I know

what it’s like to live

in a constant state of held breath.

You have been at war for four years, George.

Instead of blowing up balloons,

you’ve blown up bombs.

Instead of blowing out candles,

you’ve blown out tires, homes,

the backs of children’s heads.

You have plunged a needle

into the lungs of humanity.

You have blown up and out

all proportion, George,

except for the enormity,

the power,

of your breath,

my breath,

our breath.