Dear America, Sanctuary of a Post-Human Exile
Everything here is carnal, souls vetted to survive
fire-bombings, night raids, annihilations of love.
Whom shall we trust, what camaraderie exists?
Truth or dare. No one creates beauty here; desire
nothing. War is no beautiful thing. Not a curative.
Truth: girl once said to me, your body is designed
to heal alone. Algal sea fog rolling every noon is no
remedy for nostalgia. No, this is not a pleasure—
nothing is holy in this world. Dare we inhabit
the post-human, a fractal ebb and flow of lymph
and laser. Bless our given bodies without reprisal
or regret: borders we crossed as youth, invisible
at a distance when the fog lifts: no longer home.
Toxic compass rose of exile, carcinogenic, blooms.
The land under our soles exudes a bluing perfume,
notes of a failed paradise, of undocumented flight
from zone to sanctuary: exiles fleeing to the allure
of citizenry acquired by sea, by flood, by fire, by war.
Dear America, Love
Dear America, love –
Before I fell asleep last night, a double-star conjunction
shone so blindly, I fished it out of the west
with a rag of spider silk lost by the woolly bold jumper.
Please fix my bandwidth
so I do more sensible things.
Your skyscrapers, after falling, are going up, jagged
scapes in a nanosecond,
scaffolded and reconstructed as smoke. Millennium
of burned, hairless marigolds,
of cataclysmic seaquakes, grenades
and dazzling insects not lasting the night: we grant ourselves
permission for intimacy, for freedom to choose
whom we love while on earth
even if we do not love whom we ought.
Header photo by Ma5tt, courtesy Pixabay.