america – that band-aid full
of promises to fix you.
join the queue, dizzied
by the piles and piles
of rainbows lying
at the end of the aisle.
juice boxes, chocolates, gluten-free pasta, and
shampoos of a thousand kinds.
there are 50 ways to touch the hair on your head.
there are 50 ways to choose a magazine, where
there are 50 ways to please your man, written code red.
i spin from the choices – regular, organic, soy.
cold-pressed and cool
priced. my dream lies
in that carton of red and white,
like toothpaste or the fourth of july.
my ID is stuck
in that carton, preservative
-free, no added sugar,
to be processed, still.
america – that carton
of promises to keep
your belly full. whoever you may be,
there is always an option:
almond milks for the lactose intolerant,
agave syrups for the glucose intolerant,
big-small guns for the racially intolerant.
nation has so much of goodwill
for the things we can
the hate you give is always accepted
for donation, indeed all types are welcome.
we take sweatshirts in every color or kind.
we take bodies of every color and kind.
america – that superpower
disguised as a supermarket, promising
to make you whole.
it urges like a mother demanding
to over-achieve, you bend backwards.
it nags: eat your greens.
your farm-fresh kale, your kombucha tea,
your crisp dollar bills, your illegal weed,
your residence visa, your statue of liberty.
green as your distant aunt’s envy, she likes
your facebook pictures in spite.
for you are inside the womb
of an inferno
crown cutting into your head, young lady
while back home she,
in the kitchen, disillusioned,
makes sweet and sour
stir fry; the smoke
of trying and wanting, working and hurting
hard for a better myth of a better life, rises
up the vents to stranger skies.
Image sourced from here