A Liturgy for a Broken Republic

It is easier to keep my head down

in the same manner that praying is eating –

a silent gesture, folded inward, small enough

to slip through cracks in the noise,

to pass unnoticed by the slithering

silver serpent tongues all around me.

Beasts tear and scuffle,

and the air is thick with the stench of dirt-red ballots.

Hunched over this altar of democracy, a weed in the pews,

I weep on fragments of a charred constitution,

savoring the sacrament of brittle bones

that once upheld liberty.

The ghosts of forefathers linger in this dust,

their voices consumed by the gnashing of teeth.

Washington’s shadow falls across the fray,

his words a solemn echo in the chaos:

"The common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party"

tear at the nation’s seams, a two-headed beast,

ravenous, clawing at itself, ripping, ripping,

its fury feeding on the marrow of unity.

Salivating beasts chant freedom.

They thrash and bite,

while I pray

for the tide to tire,

for the sun to set,

for democracy to survive

Beneath burnt stars and stripes.