Poem-a-Day

On our first date, I admit I haven’t left since arriving to this country.
So, of course, being dramatic, I became a poet’s country.

Years after divorce, I lost a custody fight, in part, because of
my status—so, indeed, a free country.

Pho in the South End. Oxtail in Queens. Tinned fish. Cannoli in
Little Italy. No-contact delivery. The food of my country.

Fifty or so provincial patches of grass—upon closer look—leaves. 
The edge, where people live, frays in this country.

“We can work on human rights while negotiating,” the Senator 
says, “the prospects of nuclear war in our country.”

I was born in the Philippines, so my native tongue is partisanship.
I’m many parties. I’m made impartial by my country—

a professional, ministerial office holder. A biblical fortune.
It’s libidinal, the we in the ballad that makes a land.

It’s provisional, the line that cuts through sand. I is a line
with a place to stand. I is a framing device. What good is a nation. 

Parts of speech like mine fragment. Cut. Clean. I’m rightless 
but I have capital. Charge me, Dujie, precis a person.