i was seven and a surly nurse sniffed my pauper sweatshirt and snarled with disgust. my body squirmed away but men held me down to demonstrate the state must constrain movement.
i was five and the bus kids raised their feet when i hopped on because they were paranoid trailer germs polluted immaculate sneakers. mom made me go despite a bad reaction since daycare is a luxury.
i was twelve and an overgrown boy got on the bus and demanded loyalty from anyone in a seat he once occupied. i ignored him and he smashed my vaccinated arm.
i was fourteen and in the lobby, cable news danced as warplanes extinguished iraqi breath. i said americans think war is easy because it’s three letters long. the nurse said he had trouble finding a spot and stabbed me again and again.
i was nineteen and kim il-sung wrote this poem in a dream. he warned not to stain it with tea or a water ring. poetry has revolutionary veins because radical words circulate through its skeletal page. comrade cupp now exists in both person and poetic form. inoculate letters from this capital plague to resist dustbins that await us.