Another Fight About Omid’s Beard

My friends say you should consider your surroundings.
And all I hear is you’re surrounded.

Arson is a Family Name

I soak in the bathtub
scrub the nightly news
from my skin.
The headlines
loud like the hands
of men. I soap
away the bluebird
song dying
in a bruised boy’s chest.
I shampoo my hair
and empty classrooms
fall to the drain.
I scrub until I bleed
in protest.
But there is still America
underneath my nails.

After

The Bomb dropped.

Or the man got elected.

Or the girls were raped

and accused

of flirting. The testimonies

smeared like newsprint in the rain.

After it all they turned off

the cameras. Wiped away

each face. The ocean

has dried up.

Still we sink.

It’s hard for a body

to prove anything

once it’s been erased.