By Ruth Danon
Not the double life that troubles.
Not the late nights alone in strange towns.
Not the homes they have lost or the parents
Or the language or the food.
Not the danger. Not the boredom that out
Weighs the danger. None of that.
It’s that at night the spies write their
Thoughts in notebooks, hard
Covered, red and black, neatly lined in
Blue ink. And each night
They tear out the page with their own
hands and burn their words
In the back garden. The ashes rest in
Nests of butts, of cigarettes
No one has ever seen them smoke.