American Primer

Today we will think about whiteness.
Clouds.
Milk.
People who have their photos taken with the president.
Things like that.
Your future bones are in this milk.
Tell the child that.
Something as neutral as the body.
Something as pretend-neutral as the body.
The child points to the president and asks.
The teacher stares at the clouds and thinks
a long time before speaking,
as if she climbed a beanstalk in her mind,
up into them.
She is holding a funny, mental axe.
Axe, teacher, axe.
The president is pointing.
Point, president, point.
His finger is a white gun.
People cheer until they are white noise.
A gun is designed to shoot t-shirts
into the white noise.
That's all it takes to make history.
White noise is over the heads, more important
than the heads themselves.
The crowd cheers and catches the white softness.
It will mold to their bodies,
mold their children's bodies
for generations.

American Primer

They will sleep in the XXL-ness of it.
We all will.
The t-shirt is white cotton.
Cotton.