by Sam Markewich

Last night when you knocked on my door
And I was not home but the face of the lover
Who answered

and you spread me in half with your insurgency,
my skin tearing open under the soft weight of your leaflet,
the sweet smile on your policy,

I ran away, enraptured, to be in your arms once more
to struggle and be engulfed by your guns, your embargo,
the truth of your falsities in drones, the verse of propaganda.

I am in love, my spear chucking nigger, my bull-dyke fagot -
and it is my fault, my sweet, sexed poverty is,
as you whispered in my ear last evening, it is my own damned fault -
I am in love with your murder, with your private spending, your
covert action, with your paramilitary training.
I am in love with all of your hypocrisy you second class,
communist welfare mother.

Clinging to you lover when you left my house last evening
I sat decapitated, my intelligence rolled twelve feet
Anterior to its spine. I touched your sole and, in a wash of blue, watched the television.