no matter how many times we call London the Middle West
and the US the Far West,
you act as though these are the glory days of King Leopold.
I still haven’t told you what you did to our parents in the 1990s.
I haven’t explained why I have laser pens in my bag.
Do you remember the white hands on lapels?
Do you remember those who toasted in the bars of Madrid when Pinochet had a heart attack?
Do you remember those who pulled their hair out when Milošević died in a cell?
Do you remember those who danced in the streets of London when Thatcher had a stroke?
Do you remember grandmother’s petrol blue head scarf?
Do you remember me with braids in my hair?
Nothing we learned in school corresponds with reality.
where have you misplaced love ?
What have you done with your little specter ?
Where have you hidden your geraniums ?
When will you be stopped in security ?
When will you be tried at the Hague ?
When will you listen to refugees rather than journalists who go undercover as refugees ?
is this correct?
I refuse to give up my obsession.
I refuse to come to the point.
I refuse to buy the Berlin Wall.
I’ve said nothing to you
I’ve said nothing about the millions of poor who live in your flower pots.
I’ve said nothing about your prisons.
I’ve said nothing about how Ylva sang me to sleep that night.
I’ve said nothing about how family ties will be dissolved.
stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
I’m sick of your insane demands.
Let a woman live.
How can I write a holy litany in your hopeless mood?
The plum blossoms are falling here too.
my queer shoulder has been dislocated.
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