My country is in the green
Shannon Mahoney
Caitlin Dominski
“My country is in the green,”
is a li(n)e my president would say, unscaffolded as the bitter proclamations and other false declaratives.
My country is in the green,
which is another way of saying it’s been put out to pasture.
A way of saying someone’s winning, but
it’s only ever the guy with bills in his pocket.
Sly veto with arresting fragments—
your body is not your body because it is a body.
“Green” makes it sound like we’re doing something right.
I miss the days when we were about doing what was right
instead of just leaning that way.
Now, extending a hand no further than what it returns.
Toppling over like building
blocks of people, a mesh of arm and leg and if this is the route we’re taking, you have to know who’s coming with you.
If I’m writing this poem, and I won't let you see it,
it’s a bad idea to reach for it.
That's a good way to ensure the poet lives elsewhere.
If you go to war in the name of your country,
you must know whose country it is.
My country is my country. Named: free, liberty, justice.
Show me militiamen. Show me the guns. Show me 10,000 bodies in a city ablaze, reinventing itself, phoenix-like.
You took the country from our hands.
Who are you defending again?
Show me your palms.
Tell me, great leader,
why do they look empty?
