when it happens

My mother told me

it was rude to dance on graves.

But when it happens,

I hope it rains—

so we can start

scrubbing that invasive

hate off the bones 

Of a country 

He claimed 

She raised me on manners,

on please and thank you.

But when it happens,

I’ll wear red, white, and blue

like war paint—

for a place that bled us dry

and called it freedom.

My father told me

revolutionary fire

was a holy thing—

and he’d dance

beside me

the day it happens.

We’ll hang the flag

upside down,

for every body

they wrote off

As collateral 

We’ll dance to the eulogy

Of  the country they torched

and scatter the ashes

like salt

on the empire’s grave.

No tears.

No prayers.

Just dancing

on his grave.

Because that is all that will be left

After the sun sets on

Another power-hungry fool.

Limbs and legs.

Our own.

No words that haven’t been 

Spoken.

No warning sounds left 

To call.

No cries.

To shatter

The silence

Of the dead.

We buried.

Because of you.

Limbs and legs

Will suffice

As we dance

On his grave

No tears left to shed.

We shall stomp 

On your skull

And high kick

Your brittle embittered bone spurs.

With our steel plated

Shoes

Tap

Tap

Tap

On your head.

For old times sake,

The Puritans

You pissed yourself to please.

We’ll tie a maypole around

The statue

You commissioned

In your own honour

And,

Dance

Dance

Dance.

To the God

You used against us all.

Thank it

That you

Are dead.

And pray

That there

Will never

Be another you,

Only 

Knowing

There always is.

But for now,

We dance.

On your