Where does one Ohio end
and another begin?
Waiting in line for mozzarella sticks, I
say all empires fall.
The empire doesn’t hear me.
I place my blame on a man
handing out American flags,
their stiff masts unmoving,
an affront to the wind.
In the shaded lines of the map, I
try not to see a field on fire.
An artillery that votes.
Already we learned to parse
the data, and already we forgot.
My dog wonders why
my face is wet. I wonder if we’ll drown
together. Every four years
the world ends and somehow
begins again. In a room full
of my beloveds, I refuse forgiveness,
resolve to stare directly at the sun.
I am more than cheaper eggs
and higher walls.
I want the world to make up its mind.
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