Where is she?
You bring her out here
butt-naked,
the cellulite-less and
marinated ingénue,
that overgrown Lolita;
bring her out to this sour lawn
lit goldenrod under the weary sun,
fastidiously groomed, her
beef-hunk edges glistening
before our barbecue.
Assure her of the red-blooded
American instincts
and earnestness that drive us
over these trailer-rusted prairies
to find necks
and pairs of knees
like hers.
Though ravenous,
we hope she’ll unfold glossy
like a magazine, butterflied
into many thin filets upon our laps;
she could also cleave apart like
mica: insulation for our impulses.
Perhaps we seem
extravagant.
If she trembles,
clinging to her roll top desk,
just bring her
neat and tender.
Damn gloss if she isn’t soft:
our teeth have rotted on the road
and none of us is ready
for a filthy, fighting meal.
No, don’t tell us about
sisters, or a mother. We’re here
for the particular marble in
her skin, the mercury run of
her blood, those knees
and that neck’s submission.
She says she’s lost
her patriotic instinct?
Nonsense. We’ve got it right
here, in the back of the van
and heel of my boot,
in the buckles at our waists
and under each man’s fingernails.
We’ve got it to spare
and spread
over her like butter
before we pop her
on that grill.
Enough. We’ve starved
on this lawn too long.
We won’t wait. Dismantle her
and slap her roadmap veins
splayed continental under
that cloud-cover skin
into our palms.
We’ll chart
our own
path home.
