At least she’s pretending to be,

in sisterly solidarity.

It’s not a joke, but the whole

world’s taking it badly. Meanwhile

I sit here pretending to be a flame

in a thrown bottle. I pretend

that curved horns grow out of my ears

when I hear of injustices. And

meanwhile like the faint cigar

lights of the darkened

lounges where world leaders

fraternize, the moon’s light glows

then fades. Her labor proves to be,

well, laborious. Mine was too,

although this poem burst forth

from my brain like a boot

or a god: furious.