“You are mistaken”, he kept repeating,
“From this list, I see nothing”.
“Your son must die”.
The conversation begs for reason.
Mothers beg for lives.

Heedless to her calls,
We storm off the stage in our pissiness:
We are the ones to thank.
We are good, we say,
That is what makes us great.
Her son dangles before her.
We watch the Super Bowl and cheer for underdogs.

It is a wonder, isn´t it?
How many extremists have we now?
How many live in the White House
Year after year to end their days
Windsurfing, called gracious?

It isn´t by happenstance that
Sometimes we lie awake, frozen in
Our terror of Them.
We know…

If only she could deflate their egos,
Their tires would do, but
The hole in her soul begs for more
As she rages inside…
Soon, it is another wonder,
She shares her insides at the gate,
The walls, the windows, all
Splattered with her formless rage,
An artwork to anger.
A paean to our poison.


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