This poem, featured at Capturing Fire, the national queer poetry slam, was written by

Untitled by .never have i ever., from the TNG Flickr Pool

When Peace comes it will not be on the wing of a dove

But on the wave of one hundred thousand million foaming tongues

She will ride the dirty water of hell backed vengeance

Surf over a centuries of violence that we’ve all called justice

But justice will have to leave his boots at her doorstep

Take the latchkey from around his neck and enter her house

On his knees

What are you willing to give up for peace?

Have you made any with your wolves?

Have you forgiven your father?

If you want the Palestinians and Israelis to stop slinging slop

Then have you sent a Christmas ham to the man who beat your mother

Distasteful, repugnant, he will nonetheless be among those

huddled in the house of humanity when peace comes

to make her house our house.

We may have to dig forks into our palms

under tables heaped with ill-gotten bounty

I don’t know if I am willing

Which is to say, I don’t know if I have readied myself

for her residence in my heart

The list of those against whom I hold grudges grows

as I breathe, as I breathe I am an American

And therefore I believe in heros

Sink my claws into competition, I want to be the first one

over the finish line. Photographed while tongue kissing

my enemy, If only to see my picture on the front page of forever

I want to be that martyr

because for an american what is furthest from a monster?

when I hold up my hands, I want the pope to be able

to eat from them while he congratulates me.

what are my motives?

In my best my moments, I want my father

my rapist, to eat bountifully from his own hands

And don’t I think I am noble for this

But really?

Could I welcome the idea of his orgasm

What would it take for me to want my father

to without shame receive his god given right

to bodily pleasure

Who would I have to be to be that invested in peace?

What am I made of?

Girl times rape times the fists of lovers in my face

times poverty equals the white dress of victimry

I sold my vows to the fairy boat man

So he could rush me to the bank

emblazoned with not guilty

But really, what kind of horrible pain have I caused my father?

by telling the world my version of him

If you don’t think this keeps me up at night

then maybe you think I don’t have a heart

maybe the queen stole it, replaced it with that of a swine

I used to think that the most horrible part

is that I still love him

that I couldn’t suck him out of my DNA

but maybe it is the most magnificence ever

bestowed upon me by the mistress of peace

maybe in her tattered gown she will escort me

over her doorsteps

on the day I send my father flowers

thank him for the beautiful scar I’ve used to carve myself

What am I going to sacrifice?

I will tell you my life, but what if

what’s required for us all to breach the doorstep of peace

is to shuck the carapace of our prejudice

And then liquid all of humanity into a new, complicated and

carved out of our scars relationship to forgiveness.

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