After they furnished us mortality estimates
on a sheet to post in the hall, after they sealed
the doors, after they counted our days of water—
by megaphone from outside the perimeter—after
they locked the gate, and then drove away, after our
desperate questions had exhausted all our tears, after we
looked at each other, first with suspicion of contagion,
then with curiosity, and then with love, someone
found a guitar, remembered a song, and we all
got in a line, laughing arm in arm, and danced.