Damned if I do, damned,

damned. What pet name

to give the firing squad?

How to deescalate

a burning house? What’s

the proper way to bury

your sister – alive, in fistfuls,

or years before she asks

for lungs? And what

shovel, really? what boots?

what booming text, what pundit

wiktionary snuff cycle, what

hands, ever, have I owned?

I slice open my palms & find

more palms. Everything I touch

turns to a wet claw, as is

my right, as an American.

Right? Better a hole in the ground

than a whole village? As if

my feet are anywhere near

the road. What dream,

which woke. What chokehold

to smother this too-trebly

dronebeat? Which otherskull

to cleave open with my own

only teeth, stolen, like everything,

from the grave of a stranger

wearing my face? I will go,

I swear, I will go with the one

who sings it best, my favorite

song: you chose to be good.

you chose to be

good. you chose to

be good. you

chose to be