America the Beautiful II

He cries with his gun
and she weeps with her cleaver.
If I am mistaken in this,
burn me with money for my kindling.

What a sad hole
of formerly shaded secrets.
What a barn full of slaughterhouse
cows seeking escape.

The roses we planted
and fed with convenient blood and sweat
are blooming long after the hard frosts
have set in, and we have no more

to give unless we source it
from each other, from the ones we thought
were like us.  The message goes out:
find a reason to stick them and drain them.

He cries on his gun, she
tear-stains her cleaver.  But 
that doesn’t stop them from working,
and the roses earn a temporary reprieve.

It’s cold, though.  So cold
tears and sweat and blood are hardening.
So cold we can see now that those cows
aren’t breathing.  Our sustenance:

nothing but ghosts.  So cold the roses
break off the stems and shatter.
Our easing: nothing but scraps.
We look at each other weeping,

and realize how hungry we are.