When Nation shook her hand
she smelled the spoiled plunder.
Which alliance is not made of glass?
Which sacrifice is not a beloved?
The churches are wearing black mirrors
on their faces and somewhere the hounds
found a fugitive hiding in the open.
Nothing was uttered.
The hunted and the hunters
had been there before.
Her body is a jurisprudence of limits.
Nation offered to take refuge in the yoke of her wounds
in exchange for water.
Everything Nation say sounds like a deal.
The ratio of excess to yield
are all the loves she’s wrapped in condoms
to bring across the border.
What of broken?
What of surrender?
What is the consistency of hollow?
The illusion of her body is a found poem.
The annexation of her land
was the breaking.
these mausoleums of promises,
this ceremony of gestures.
In this waking dream of fangs, a foreign animal
Which tunnel, which void, which emigrant?
I am her. And I
too want to swallow the disquieting,
the magisterial alive. Un-cage
my raven, my zaftig, my keeper of corpses.
Allow her to speak her bone language.
Lose the word patriotism. Divide it
into a wall of dolls.
Give me back my preverbal wisdom.
In this cunning quake of words
let me be unborn.