A flag on an empty hill

to dismiss or win
a war.
The colors aren’t
spattered or torn
so still
the shells keep dropping;

they want there to be nothing

left to fight for
so give us everything to rise against.

We become 
Rainbows crossing cotton

with the vagina monologues.
Nylon stripes
of an invaded Ukraine.
Wool fists screeching
their names on skateboards,
Breonna’s face on a brick wall.
Bedsheets, linen, pillowcases
unlike aluminum foil for children
shut away from their families
and left in a kennel.

Do we remember we lost them?

We’re running out of fabric,
try to make do
with cardboard
with plastic
left with the battered polyesters
of every person we forgot
the points we surrender.

I wish this were an empty hill

for one flag
-one reason, one resource, one focus-
but the grounds are
littered in tragedies
perpetrated by grandstanders
yanking for what
we hold
dear. There is nothing left
but a fight. If there is
nothing left but a fight,
and a fight,
     and a fight,
          and a fight,
               and a fight,
          and a fight,
     and a fight,
and a fight,
                                          and a fight,
Then fuck it, let’s brawl.

What else are we meant to do?