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,