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.