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Watching the twang of America

on T.V. nipping at the heel chords,

the tendons, the porous

ruins of a Country’s bones,

the Coup

the busts of Con-

federates in the Rotunda,

not a culture,

but a filter, Dis-

stilled and Dis-

gusting

white lightning,

blustering, cowering

at the distant

thunder that awaits.

 

But we say this

in whispers,

in the bubble

of our living rooms,

in the fragility

of being witness,

our bodies infected,

our senses dulled,

eating Georgia peaches

from a can,

from the couch,

until

there’s that twinge,

that faint sweetness

of hope

on the tongue –

and we sit together

you and I,

confused

and weeping.

limited submission window – insurrection

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