By the banks of a flood
we sat and wept — by the

rivers of
Babylon, by the shores of the mighty 
Mississippi. From the rooftops
of a drowned city. Near the edge
of a rising tide.  

We sat and wept
and then cried out:
we were promised
dry land; where is it now? We were 
promised safety, where is it now?

We were promised lives 
and now are being told this is not feasible,
we only ever asked for lives
and now are being told these are not
practical, were promised 
that promises made were to be kept
and now we find that all the air
was fouled from the moment it left
their mouths and then,

then to see you

sitting by these same banks
with your own feet swamped in the filth
of the flood, see you

with the drowning so close to you as well, see

you with your eyes
raised over our heads
to something we can’t see,
see you and hear you

asking us why we broke the dams
and let this happen when all we did
was point at the dams and say
look at the seams, the leaks, the cracks,
look, look, can’t you see we are drowning?

Can’t you see that
you are soon to be drowning as well?

You ask us why we cry out
with our arms raised and flailing.

We stare back at you, we ask:

how can you not?

after the first rejection
the first acceptance came immediately

when your lungs filled with air
upon birth.

feeling the former 
more than the latter,

you cried out in confusion
at once.

that’s how we knew
you were alive.

you kept your eyes closed
so you could pretend it wasn’t true.

that’s how we knew
you were human.

you’re still alive, still unsatisfied, 
still squalling, still longing for the womb.

that’s how we know
you’re American.

pinch enough
of your boss’s stash
to set yourself up as 
someone’s boss just so you

can guard against
a similar pinch
off your own meager hoard
while lying sweat-heavy in bed

worrying about
thieves like you.
you are that well-owned.
you have imprinted

strongly upon
the wings and claws
of those birds of prey
who tear you up only

to fan your open wounds
with their dirty feathers.
it feels like they care enough
to soothe the pain they caused.

it feels like rogue parenting.
a warm snuggly
smallpox blanket.
a red white and blue 

cartoon hero’s cape
stuffed into your mouth and nose
until you can’t breathe
from under all that love.

you’d better find someone
and do it to them quick because
the only way to get ahead here
is to step on one.

They’re tilting,
tipping over because
one half of every one of them
is horror.
They’re lopsided
from carrying it.  

Immaculate beings
in split levels,
or lean and dirty ghosts
in a tent under cold stars; why wonder
if it’s nature or nurture driving them?  

What’s driving them
is nurture playing
in the snowfields
of nature’s mountains.
What’s driving them
is nature slipping a hand
into nurture’s back pocket
as they walk side by side.

Only one half of each is horror.
The other half is frozen joy. 

They look for thaw.
Limp toward clues to it. Call out:

Is there something to warm it with
on sale here?

What price the fire this time?

May there be credit
at terms easier
than what we know
we could be forced to sign.

May we straighten up.

May no one
laugh or shoot at us 
on our way
to straightened up.

New poem.

The symptoms
of exsanguination
colloquially known as “bleeding out”
include

anxiety
blue lips and fingernails

unofficially sanctioned neighborhood demarcations
flimsy justifications of hair trigger rage

low or no urine output
profuse sweating

a profound distrust of received wisdom
easy to believe conspiracies and backroom handshakes

shallow breathing
dizziness

imprisonment
educational poverty

confusion
chest pain

the elevation of cultural assimilation
to sacramental status

loss of consciousness
low blood pressure

carnival barkers on the news
a camera on every corner

rapid heart rate
weak pulse

death upon death
upon no longer unexpected death

the echoes
of centuries of trickle and drip

turning into a flood
of names to remember

a cloven nation
drenched in blood
that should never have seen
the light of day