They wake up at night to make a sandwich. They can't sleep.
Little bit of mayonnaise, roast beef, sesame oil, balsamic vinegar—
they can't just make a sandwich.
Terrorists usually have a second job 
to support themselves,
sometimes at sandwich shops.
Kosher salt, a pinch, the terrorists sprinkle on the bread like snow.

They eat chips, too.
Their hand in and out of the bag, 
not completely unlike the sound of feathers.
Terrorists eat slow, think of birds preening.
They make strange salads,
cheese and garbanzo beans,
watching Stargate SG-1.
Look how sad they are.

Some terrorists try going back to college,
a new haircut,
or local Renaissance Fests.
Get a hobby, the Terrorists' friends say.
The Terrorists experience inner turmoil.
They drink and start running,
try to get into the gym but the doors are locked.
Look, they're so sad.
They pull the door handles,
flecks of rust sticking to their hands.

I talk to my sister when she's drunk.
Through the phone, the feathers of her laugh.
Are you a terrorist, I ask?
She's a sophomore in college.
Maybe one of the sad ones got to her,
whisked her to Denny's 
where he placed his hand on her stomach,
asked her how hungry she was
when that wasn't what he cared about.
In the booth, she gets sad with him. Look.
It's hard to tell.
I can only tell because she's my sister.
I see her mouth open,
I see his finger touching her lip.
When we were kids 
I used to draw on her face when she slept.
Rachel, I want to whisper, because that's her name.

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