Chewing on the (War) Bullet

It’s like a hole in my throat,
this lack of languages,
burning further down fraying vocal cords
in sync with Greenwhich-time-set,
no circling anymore, 50 billion years going linear,
so dig up those Aztec bones,
search for a moment, a tenth-second,
locate a morpheme, a print, a hieroglyph—
must’ve been dusted off
with a backspace,
useful now to those among the Andes
with the gift of a green machine—
one for everyone—
from the under-Claus of our Christmas trees—
if you’re good, we’ll give you an email address with that
and plant a few power towers—
chewing on the bullet to lose a few teeth,
have top dentists—
I’m white.  I’m chewing on the bullet and cracking some teeth.

Katie Hoffman