America in the Year of the Pig

By Tiffany Troy
  

 On the last day of the Seventh Month 
 of the Year of the Pig I clicked open the Adobe PDF, 
 typed my name, 
 drew my signature 
 on the loyalty oath denouncing 
the country of my birth.

  
 I have not missed the irony 
 or forgotten the Rabbit 
 in the Moon shining 
 upon Chinatown with its men-spits 
 and street defecation—
 my hands taking peach blossom 
 branches perfectly aligning 
 them one by one 
 to those in line 
 around la Trampa
 Table #5 as one after one 
 signed their rights 
 away and our cries 
 unheeded only branding 
 us as incompetent
  or infertile like the two cows 
 with no milk 
 left as I pressed that frail 
 leaf and lit it on fire 
 to warm myself, 
 holding golden paws
 in that Sakura Matsuri dance
 before I learned 
 that I was la mestiza
 no different from the little animals
 who should be taught 
 a lesson before being sent 
 back to the crime-infested country 
 from which they came
 or the alien who got off 
 scot free for fifteen 
 years before he was taken 
 away by ICE agents already waiting 
 there. Please come with me, they said,
 what right does he have to be here?
 they asked. But I remember 
 the warning: First they came 
 for . . .and then . . .I saw 
 I was the black pixelated 
 board no longer lit
 as hives circle my body 
 and I carry his heavy 
 corpse as the pests sound
 in the silence of the tree 
 songs as I dragged 
 his body away long before 
 I looked up
 and saw that rabbit 
 in the moon 
 covered in silver 
 raindrops.
 
   

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