by Arjun Rajendran
The ATM queue outside my house stretches till the border.
You’re a patriot at either end, closer to bullets,
or the machine acknowledging your demons with receipts.
Every day, you get to deposit 1/2 a nightmare, or a diary page.
The skydiver who drove me to work in his auto put his
herpes into a savings account. He quit jumping from
planes after he saw the earth as our leader’s face. A kitten
on the umbrella of the lady standing in line before me mews
that I shouldn’t worry. Press the button next to Yes
to print 1001 questions you were always afraid to ask
the pedophile. Or press No, if that’s what your silence meant.
I kick the ATM. A soda tumbles out — let’s drink to the nation!
Arjun Rajendran is currently working on a chapbook about death row, counseling and alien abductions. He has poems forthcoming at Caesura and Strange Horizons.