Cloth for royal garments
adorns political ties, stuffed
couches in ornate offices. Men plot
behind brocade screens, use
the cover of dark words to justify
unlimited incarceration.
"I yield to the gentleman from..."
But where is the blood? A rape
of a body,
of a country,
should show blood.
Gates are sewn tightly shut.
With sparkles for the holiday season,
they have a chauffeur cut a limousine
from the herd, mount
its back seat, fade
into the fabric, midwives
of a viper.
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