My country is a liar
dressed in red, white, and blue—
It swears an oath with one hand raised,
with fingers crossed behind the flag.
It speaks in rectangles of light.
Podiums bloom.
Sentences arrive, still warm,
from the copier’s mouth.
Truth is denied.
It is delayed.
Rescheduled. Placed on hold
pending review.
Truth is dismissed.
A new weather arrives:
unmarked vans, nameless helmets.
Cities learn the forecast:
batons, shields,
the sound of whistles and horns.
Glass breaks.
That is called violence.
Skulls break.
That is called policy.
The script is flipped clean:
the struck are now the threat,
order is the arm that swings.
The label Terrorist is stretched,
a latex glove that fits anyone.
A crowd becomes a category.
A category becomes a target.
The state rehearses We had no choice
until it sounds like law.
Somewhere, this is doctrine.
Here, it is branded Homeland.
Flags wave to cover the noise.
Noise is cited as the reason
for the force that made it.
And when asked who taught them this—
this policy of the boot,
this kneeling
on the line between
order and neck—
they wipe the microphone,
lean into the quiet,
and say,
Your mom did.
