To applaud a corpse
is only arithmetic.
Subtract the breath,
add the headline,
divide by tribe.
The flag gnaws its own threads,
spits the blue space between stars
into the gutter
as wingbeats of lead scribble
their errata across the sky.
Again we mistake fire for gospel,
map for tinder.
Every throat a fusebox,
every ballot a feather
that floats toward an open furnace.
Danger lives in the gray fracture,
lurking behind
a mask of slogans.
Is this the route we wish to take?
To march into fire believing it light,
while cities fold into themselves
like broken accordions?
When the sidewalks are salted
with brass and steel
even those who claim victory
have already lost.
Nothing grows here
but teeth.
A republic teaches itself to disappear
by repeating the word
them.
This poem was first published at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change and later nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize. Huge thanks to F. J. Bergmann and the Mobius team.
The Truth About Tigers 