Truth is, we couldn’t have predicted
whiskey-plied folks collecting us

on barges, then the dumping offshore.
Truth is, we lived under a waxing gibbous moon.

If the tide littered us back to a beach, then luggage
is what we wore. Truth is, we never predicted us

as refugees. Not war-torn, but weather-torn.
Flying, twisting, odorless, blue overflow.

Nature: you’re not to blame. Where in our palms
would we ever have found this forecast?

Children, we prayed. We placed you in front
of us. We turned our backs to avoid flying timbers.

We left boiled tomatoes. And here I am now
inside a pyre living on this larger island

like it’s a reunion. Ashes. And ashes.
We export again, not like cotton,

                                                        but up.

John Milkereit lives in Houston, Texas working as a mechanical engineer. His poems have appeared in various literary journals including previous issues on Panoplyzine. He has completed a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at the Rainier Writing Workshop. In December 2023, Kelsay Books published his fourth collection of poems entitled, Lost Sonnets for My Unvaccinated Lover.