I am not a woman
excited by war
relics, though
I am considering
buying a gun. The kind
lean as tenderloin, but still
burst the fire through. I mean,
I am a small girl
in her lonesome. No
guaranteed safety
of my nigga at night. No,
just me, and my sharpest knife
smoking an L
near the window sill;
a blight of seclusion.
But, you know,
there is an entire boulevard
for a veterans memory
in Tuscaloosa. That
is not what I oppose.
Collective memory
is a hell of a snag.
My memory
is a long Uhaul
down Memorial Drive
disobeying traffic
because I am the largest
on this paved liqueur,
and even the smallest
child burnt does not
stop the maniacal laugh.
I wonder if this is history
when visiting a country
that has bombed you out
the wazoo. My God. Where
am I with the 12 gauge shotty? Who
am I, but a afraid
that living in a country
that celebrates
a machine that kills
thousands of children
and also prints
God Bless America
on its license plates,
will garner me
the worst kind
of karma.