Mukoli

The Empire Knows & Other Poems

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The Empire Knows

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The empire knows how to hide its best snipers
in the camouflage of unimposing lexicon:

Instead of borders, say “security.”
Instead of war, say “patriotic service.”

The empire knows you: it will inflate you like those
tube men that beckon you outside used car lots.

Instead of greed, say “economic prosperity.”
Instead of exploitation, say “free country.”

The empire knows that some words are enough to make you
coat your pores in red, white, and blue fumes and suffocate.

Instead of brainwashing, put your hand on your heart and pledge.
Instead of brainwashing, chant the “national anthem.”

The empire knows how much you love to sing for it, 
that you’ll rattle the coins it tossed in your tin can.

Instead of racism, say “history.”
Instead of genocide, say “conflict.”

Hold that can next to your ear and listen: the empire knows
it’s hard to discern between the clatter of coins versus bullets.

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To The Students Who Remind Me to Love This World

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And one day, you were gone, one could say
you’d flown from the nest, my flock
in formation, but really, it was like a day
when I walked outside, and, suddenly, the branches
were all barren, and I didn’t even remember 
the leaves transforming riotous, with brazen colors,
fleeing from the grips of their nurture. 
I couldn’t find the slightest trace of any nests;
the wind turned combative and metallic.
But I am always braced for this, aren’t I?
Hadn’t I taught you that the one constant
in this world is its coldness? Look—
this is the only love poem I’ve ever written,
and somehow it’s still turning
into something that crunches under my heel.
But do you remember, how the room would rustle
with ideas? Do you have any clue how every day
you keep me alive? You, who haven’t hollowed
with cynicism yet. You, whose compassion 
might rip through even the most impenetrable dam
of ignorance. I taught you books are sacred,
as we cracked their spines and read our own
damnation, but did I remember to teach 
you what a wild wonder you are? Someday, 
without me, I know you’ll raise your fists 
and voices, a synchrony that swarms the streets, 
a murmuration of starlings.
Today, I walked outside and a congregation of wings
startled from a bush and lifted off.  
The branches shivered: it sounded like applause.

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I Can’t Tell If I’m Depressed or Just American

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On International Women’s Day

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I don’t want any drowsy platitudes about women 
and our strength today: I want the single mom waiting tables 
until 2 a.m. to spill a tray of drinks on a table of business men. 

I want the illiterate women to sing 
annoying jingles on public transportation
so you can’t get their words out of your head. 

I want the women in wheelchairs
to block your entrance to steps.
I want you to give a hug to the trans

sex worker and I hope she picks your pocket. 
I want the women janitors to go on strike 
and I want you to face your shit stains

in the toilet for once. I want the woman 
going into debt for her chemo to steal
all the Viagra and sell it for ridiculous prices. 

I want the little girls who may be the next target 
of a school shooting to lead the revolution and I want
you to be mad about it and stay mad about it.

I want the incarcerated women to revolt 
and I want the guards who raped them to have their guns
turned on them and I want them to shit their pants about it. 

I want the women who are abused or mutilated
to hold razors in their cheeks and give blowjobs 
to every guilty man. I want you to throw us a goddamn

parade and I want birth control pills to rain 
from the sky instead of confetti. And if any of us 
still needs an abortion, I want you to shut up about it, 

and if you even think of saying anything about it, 
I want you to go sit in a corner and stay there 
until I say so. I want you to look at a girl fleeing 

bombs in a war-torn country or a girl being trafficked 
into this country or a girl in a sweatshop making your clothes—
I want you to look her in the eyes—and I want you to say, 

“Happy Women’s Day,” and I want to know 
if that makes you feel good about yourself, if you feel 
like you’ve done enough. I want the homeless woman

holding a sign that said, “Does life have a purpose?” 
to have shelter—there’s no punchline. I want this world 
to be sheltering. Is that too much for us to ask for?

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