Does the sight of blood make you proud, patriot?
Can you see you your face reflected in the eyes of the dead?
Is there anything left on these scraps of skin to suck,
a tapestry yet to be woven from the stained hairs
that decorate your unexploded grenades?
Do the stammers of a foreign tongue
echo as the cries from an abattoir,
bleating in the face of bolt guns and bone saws,
a warning to their impatient ilk of the true nature of justice?
Will you be as brave as the Crushed
when the scissors are to you handed,
and they ask to see the scripture
scalded into the muscle of your forearm?
How does the wine taste sipped from a child's skull?
How does the bread baked from ground bone
taste upon your confident tongue?
Will you ask for that same mercy that by birthright you have held aloft,
as a canteen above lips cracked and dying?
Or will you fill your pants with shit
when you finally find your fingers trembling upon the golden trigger,
thrust to the back of my neck
while my eyes reflect your own guilty cheeks,
and unanswerable cries are silenced
by the weight of all you were born to be,
of the violence that steeps within your bless'd arteries?
I lie here, quiet, I die,
and still you bring yourself to life without misstep,
evil rendered inert by opportunity,
and the American refusal to view it as such.