anthroapology
we fought ghosts of the cold war
whistling cuban jazz and smoking with our fathers,
while warm rain collapsed guantanamo.
you had surgeon’s eyes in the first months,
and pushed against the sutures, spreading the democracy
of white bread and standard oil.
the applause crackled like high cane, and we listened.
but you will not understand,
not while you jerk your thumb at passing cars
and carve grey epitaphs into your skin,
or wake dangerous with an arctic sweat
because your body’s in the habit.
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