First Lady

Sleeping with the enemy, the PM.

The ones who control.

Those that decide

who gets in, who does not.

And how hard the journey will be.

 

These arbitrary groups,

these siblings joined only

by the letters on their chests,

these letters that aren’t even their own.

A language, an alphabet, a culture that does not belong

to beer-drenched house, sickly-drunk boys,

and passed-out girls.

And so I sleep,

Lying on my back, captured, a prisoner of war

But the PM, for now, he’s mine.

In my casual whispers, my slow and thoughtless words

I guide him between his ears, between his sheet,

as we lay in a bed I didn’t make.

 

His arbitrary brotherhood, the ones he joined

so sacred, boys’ only family

in a world of 8,000. when only letters

can tell you who your loved ones are.

If only they knew how it’s constructed,

who makes the decisions of fraternity.

 

An awkward bar hopper, a transfer kid

A girl whose drifting, illiterate

In greek, in sisterhood, in this bizarre culture.

But, her. She decides. She knows

if she can’t be the president,

well then, she’ll be his wife.

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