The regime is having a birthday party, so we turn off the lights
and pretend we’re sick. All night, happy americans
honk their horns. We did it! they scream into our window.
In the morning, We is all over the floor. We sweep We
into a paper bag and label it EMERGENCY. The good news
is that things will go back to the way they were,
which is also the bad news. Meanwhile, I cut
an onion, and it’s onions all the way down, and that’s a fine
reason to cry at the sink on a Monday after the empire
congratulates itself on persisting again. No, thank you,
I’m stuffed, I couldn’t possibly have more hope. I haven’t finished
mourning the last tyrant yet. I haven’t said enough
goodbyes to—oh, what was her name? And hers?
How many We’s did they cut out of me? And whose country
was I standing on, the last time we survived?