America keeps more than just our spines.
She never digs anything up — she plucks hairs from who’s here,
reassuring herself that all exchanges are mutual,
but nobody she takes from knows she’s got anything.
They think it’s all symbolism.
They say, “here is my heart, America,”
and she will yank off a leg within ten minutes.
Miraculously, the people still march.
Most of her bones hail from places
where fists wrap around bars that might as well be bones.
I don’t have the money to buy back my body.

Have we forgotten her jaw?
That she is in fact a whole physique
crammed together from lost parts on the side
of the road, every screw and scrap of meat (in her words,
human or “foreign”) convincing themselves
that together means no longer broken?

No drop of her blood can shiver enough to warm itself.
She manages to force a smile that begs to differ.
This bony chatter, a new applause, the native language
of gunfire, the clenching of teeth dipped in paint
spoiled like milk and a child.
She chews the rhythm of riot gear and tactical boots
and pretends she isn’t fighting herself.

Her body works for her. We don’t ask for a dime.
(America has miles of duct tape.)
Take our dust and name it spice,
grind our ash and call it black sugar.
My god, we must taste so, so sweet.