Developed Nation by Joyelle McSweeney
Is this how a god returns from victory?
This is america. The boy soprano
into the doughnut-world.
Fresh from the fish-mold.
Clattering out across the snow
to buy a paperknife,
clutching a flier…
A test in harmonies.
Here comes the perfect pitch-
it’s white, it falls to the glove,
showing its stitches. Here comes
the hot-front, stitched with flags
O beautiful he produceth
language from everyplace
on his body, the room
where the heatcloud lifts to the ceiling…
the subcommander crouched in the stalkbed breathing
into his lily-season
Hard Times by Baby Huey