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?