Election Results

Dear false future, the shells of seeds
you crack open with your teeth make
a small, damp pile in the trash. Each 
is a world you pried open to extract 
its only treasure. How many martyrs lie 
buried without headstones? Meanwhile,
your blind mother and your bloated 
father have their hair washed twice 
a day, their organs flushed and pickled,
pearls sewn into their thumbs. Dear 
false future, have you forgotten how 
we scaled the walls of your palace and saw 
with our own eyes all the drawers gaping open, 
while you fled in the night like the common
thug you are? Gorged on the fantasy
of return, you want to herd us into 
the bombed shelters of our hope.
Perhaps we find ourselves inside a new
failure of words: even then, we've not
forgotten.  Our memory swells, a sail grown
large again with the old winds of anger.