To My Beloved Homeland
Nikola J Milosavljevic

Drinking makes me prattle in a foreign tongue and
cackle with guttural bubble shards.

The greasy gray biker beards bothered by the rolling R’s, sit at the bar rubbing their faded shoulder tattoos.

Then they’ll flash their knives secured on the belt under
the belly line, saying “ Does Amazon ship to Russia?

They’ll flex their saggy muscles and try to pick a fight
with me over words. It’s like sitting in a room full of magazine editors.

“English only!”— Comes from the dark corner next to the
bathroom door.

They think that I’m here to take over. That communism has a language. They believe that I want to devour their:

apple pies,
cheeseburgers,
hotdogs,
fireworks,
churches,
pistols

Did I even know life before all that? They think that I want to dispute the freedoms of limbless veterans kissing the banner with tears in their eyes— saying “Proud to be ‘Merican, and spare any change?”.

Freedom of brutality, freedom of dope, freedom
of unlimited power. I’m not here for any of that.

I speak the language of tenderness in the war ruins.
The language of two survivors moving slag under
the shoe soles while dancing gently.

The language that I spoke when I met you,
in which I miss you greatly. The language that
brings you closer to me in words without distance.