← v16n2, Fall 2017
Poetry · Volume 16, Number 2

Mess Hall

Your knives tip down

in the dish rack

of the replica plantation home,

you wash hands

with soaps pressed into seahorses

and scallop shells white

to match your guest towels,

and, like an escargot fork, America,

you have found the dimensions

small enough to break

a man—

a wet rag,

a bullet, a bullet

like a bishop

or an armless knight

of the Ku Klux Klan,

the silhouette

through your nighttime window,

a quartet

plays a song you admire,

outside a ring of concertina wire

circles around a small collapse.

America, ignore the window and look at your lap:

even your dinner napkins are on FIRE.