by Leija Farr
His country is a toiletry
Where people wipe dirty fingers
It is an oil stain on the map
In constant comparison to unwashed forks
His country wants badly to be cleaned
It strips itself nude at the bathtub
Wants to soak in soap suds and Epsom salt
It knows war by bloody hand prints
Crippled by pipe exhaust and tobacco
What will kill you faster?
The cancer of the throat or the cancer of hate?
A tumor modeled by a barrel, in your throat.
It has been in the mouths of many others
Crust with vomit and wet prayer
The sidewalks drown in bowel movements
A country nicknamed toiletry
Nicknamed baby wipe
Where no one begins clean
Featured image by Ked Art
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