I recently visited the excellent Museum of Chinese in America in New York. This poem was partly inspired by that experience.
warm bodies
we are happy to have warm bodies
to throw at their guns
Chinese, black, dynasty, diaspora
anyone but our own sons
what happened to thirty paces
the crack of the pistol
as the mist rose off the dawn ground
when did we start loading the chambers
with soft flesh
gunpowder burning the skin
as we launch the children of the poor
at the children of the poor
praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
and if he gives you any trouble
shoot the fucker
it’s a hard equation
but that’s how we do math these days
with mercenary sensibility and a lead-pipe cruelty
not even John Cusack can make charming
the baby in the bassinet
has dynamite in her mouth
the fuse trails off under a door marked
RESTRICTED
in the morning you find a card in your mailbox:
“Manzanar — Wish You Were Here!â€
the accompanying cartoon
helps our boys track you down
by the way you walk and the slant of your eyes