Which war are we fighting now?
I can't keep track.
Did we win one?
And who are we, anyway?
I was fighting the war on poverty,
you, the war on drugs.
I was on drugs. Were you on poverty?
War on terror was terrifying--
is it over? How will we know?
It's all a black box, a black site.
When some man with a map
(maybe you who can move an inconvenient
hurricane with a marker)
makes a border disappear,
who then do we fight?
Who are 'we'?
I see the Mason Dixon, even when not drawn.
I see you are still fighting the Civil War,
uncivilly, civilian, silly man, too much power.
Perhaps the country was always too big,
too big for its own britches, even before
it went shore to shore and through the Pacific
yappity Yap, Guam home, soldier.
Bases, bases everywhere,
making water unfit to drink.
Your wars may seem Cold to you,
but hot to those on the ground,
You call it a 'friendly invasion',
not so the local women,
raped, stoned in their soup,
larders emptied, starving the children
not old enough to fight.
Who do you want to include in 'we'?
Who do you exclude, yet votes
for you, fights for you? You'll never have to vote
again, my beautiful Christians. But you, sweetheart,
you are a nasty Christian. Have mercy,
my ass.
Oh shithole country,
I have become you.
(c) 2025 Karina Lutz
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