America, the land of silent classrooms,
where freedom takes aim in open hallways.

They say the enemy of my enemy is my friend,
but when she strides in with stars in her eyes,
her trauma buried beneath her skin,
and blood staining the black leather of her boots,
who does she fight for now?

I raise my hand high, trembling,
red, white, and blue spilling from my tongue
to kiss the heel that stamps bombs
onto the lives of others—
and onto me.

You, yes, you—
it’s always for you, for freedom.
Bruised and battered, don’t resist.
Bite the hand that feeds you? I dare you.
I’ll tax that too.

You’ll keep dreaming the dream,
still unseen,
a mirage in the distance—
an M16,
its range calculated in liberty and loss.

We let history play on a skipping record,
one genocide birthing another,
the grooves of our vinyl
packed with excuses,
wrapped in the slick veneer of freedom.

What do we choose to see
when the stars in our eyes
blind us to the blood on our hands?