"Desired Appreciation."
"Until now, now that I've reached my 30s,
all my muse's poetry has been harmless, American and
diplomatic.
A learned helplessness is what psychologists call it,
my docile desired state.
I've been largely well-behaved and gracious.
I've learned the doctors learned of learned helplessness
by shocking dogs.
Eventually, we things give up.
Am I grateful to be here?
Someone eventually asks if I love this country.
In between the helplessness, the agents,
the nation must administer a bit of hope.
Must meet basic dietary needs.
Ensure by tube, by nose, by throat, by other orifice.
Must fistbump a janitor.
Must muss up some kid's hair and let him
loose around the Oval office.
Click click could be cameras, or the teeth of handcuffs,
closing to fix the arms overhead.
There must be a doctor on hand to ensure the shoulders do not
dislocate, and there must be Prince's Raspberry Beret.
Click click could be Morse code, tapped out against a coffin
wall to the neighboring coffin.
Outside my window, the snow lights
cobalt for a bit at dusk, and I'm
surprised every second of it.
I had never seen the country like this.
Somehow, I can't say yes.
'This is a beautiful country.
I have not cast my eyes over it before, that is,
in this direction,' is how John Brown put it when he looked out
from the scaffold.
'I feel like I must muzzle myself,' I told
my psychiatrist.
'So you feel dangerous?' she said.
Yes.
'So you feel like a threat?'
Yes.
Why was I so surprised to hear it?