The White Moderate
I hope you’re choking on the coal runoff in your cool, trickling streams.
When shots ring out from the bell tower, I beg your child clutches his chest.
On sand-caked knees, in trenches dug deep,
May the enemy’s unforgiving bullet find your sweet love.
I pray that the purple mountain’s majesty becomes an avalanche that buries you deep.
Oh, for you to be sliced open, like a middle school dissection
All jagged edges and exposed pickled entrails
who’s intentions were pure.