The World Is Too Heavy— I Thought I Could Carry It.

Kira Reilly
Every morning I am told that I was saved by God,
so I could sit still,
legs crossed,
head turned away from the scene
with a bullet trapped between my teeth.

And everyone keeps washing
and washing stains
out of their white painted bones and polyester suits.

One man rules all.
And other men walk on their sides of the street,
shut up with duct tape,
holding their lives in a briefcase
while their exo-skeletons erode like cheap copper
from the work of one man in the plastic box.

Millions are rotting because they
can’t scrape the wax off their apples.
Millions are rotting because they
can’t fix the wires around their wrists.
Millions are rotting because one man
can’t tell the difference between red and black.

We live in a democracy.
I was born here, and I can’t tell you what that is.

We throw lead and watches blindly
for statues to stand
all in the name of…


I couldn’t say… Bibles?

Pockets full of pennies we found on the factory floor?

What exactly is this democracy for?
Because I haven’t met a single person that hasn’t been
forced to imitate the painted bones
of the Aquia Creek Sandstone,

yet we are told that we’ve been freed and saved by God every morning.

I have carried a world with
pennies stacked on top of me,
praying they don’t turn green,
for what?

A man that won’t give me
or anyone
a speck of the thick, glimmering copper?