This poem belongs to a collection of poems called Year of the Wasp that I plan to publish in 2016. It has no title and could be deemed political.

Carnivore crows fly

east by west by south by north

to feast on the banquet of our duty—

mark time’s carrion compass course.

And it is a mystery to me

why the killers are heralded while the faceless dead

are said to blame.

And, I must confess, it is not just the sin

that sickens, but its plagiarism.

O country that is—that is not—my country,

that follows me home like some mongrel

on a dirt road that traces the spine of a broken levee

as backyard dogs goad themselves into a frenzy,

know this: I would rather shoot you for a stray

than follow your path another day.