Oh America,
When have you been sure of any
War. A man was lighting up a spoon,
Some deadly honey, and you put a
gun to his lips knowing he liked the
feel of metal to the mouth; knowing,
love to him, was but a caricature you
had exploited through 50 First Dates
and I Love Lucy. Put you placed that
that cold-wet barrel to his mouth
not seeing he was already a dying
man, and you murdered him twice.
And you didn’t cry, Sweet Land, you
just allowed the procession to run
amok; astray; aghast; a ravine of oil
at the center of him you wanted, too,
all inside your chunky, sweating hands.
This man, well he was my brother and
the sun; he was my chirping blue-jay
and abuela’s cooking under a storm;
he was my mother mid-child birth to
him and you chewed his placenta up
wanting to grow big and strong when
you were already evergreen and a
monster that cannot even die. If I
even begun to sing their names, you,
Yes you, would create a rainfall and
drown out my song to them. America,
you’ve taken my hands and I want
them back. Brother, well, they, wants
his tongue back too. You killed these
gallivanting doves in the guise of a
war you’re still unsure of. Oh,
America.