Executive Order

Every man adores a fascist,

the man with the iron fist and the microphone

And here he is again, the man who bought girls

from Epstein, like property, who raped and walked free,

who killed with policy and never saw a courtroom

that could hold him.

Building his wall brick by brick by executive order,

and the mothers come, children clutched like prayers,

to the edge, always the edge, where America ends

And mercy never began. I watch them on my phone,

thumb scrolling, complicit as any gadji

who's learned to look away when the state decides

which bodies matter, which children get to live.

The mothers are so small on my screen,

their children perfected in that American way

which is to say, dead enough to be pitied,

not alive enough to be let in. One was named Jakelin.

She was seven. She died of dehydration in a cell

while guards laughed about her vomit.

I scrolled past her. I had dinner. I forgot her name

until I needed it for this poem.

The man who partied with Epstein, who said his daughter

was a "piece of ass," who grabbed women by the pussy

and bragged about it, this is who they are now.

This is who they've always been.

My people know what it means when they build walls,

when they decide you're the wrong kind of body

at the wrong kind of border. We've been here before.

We know how this ends.

Every man adores a fascist

Or at least, they love their comfort more

than they hate his wall, his rapes, his dead girls,

His executive orders turning children into ghosts.

I am my own accomplice. I am yours.

I am eating men like air and choking on it.

The boot is in my face, and I am kissing it.

The boot is in my face, and I am filming it.

The boot is in my face and I call it content.

The boot is in my face, and I am you.

Jakelin's body in the desert.

The girls on Epstein's island.

The mothers at the wall.

All of them perfected now.

All of them ours.