Hold us close, your children. We the children of dismantled saints. We the children of uncommon loyalty. We the children of dread melted down & minted. Our pallor is our centerpiece. Our verbs know only past tense: the least sexual of grammatical imperatives. Encoded in our capillaries is a new form of forgiveness. The kind dispensed in gravel. The kind you find in the run of your stockings. I love the little glance of your thigh. A clue to your remainder. A clue I would tongue for hours.

Dear America
They mail me out in installments. In six to eight weeks you will have my arms to drape off your belt. You will have my legs, lacquered & beautiful. My lungs breathing in the mailbox. I arrive in discrete packages for your convenience. You can hide me beneath the mattress. Inside the oven. I will wait in the shower, the garage. I’m no less a body than seraphim listening for the night to arrive. For your throat to become a soft, wet keyhole. I’m not saying I’ll climb in, but I’m not saying I won’t.

Dear America
If you went deaf, don’t worry. I know a little sign language. I know the phrase to want: You keep your palms flat, raised. You reach & pull out your father’s lungs until the floor’s covered in his attractive confetti. I know the phrase I’m your bedlam swan tonight & the washing machine is on sale. If you were an appliance, I’d keep you plugged in. Maybe run my lips across the socket until it told me to stop.


Adrian Sobol lives in Colorado. He's currently writing a series of love letters to a country that might not deserve it. You can watch it happen live on Twitter, @deeramerika.