My Kyrgyz classmate, after the revolution,
spoke of his government’s overthrow known
to none of us. Either it was not shown
on TV or clashed with makeover solutions.
In a Bel-Air suite, regretting her resolution,
a woman has her thighs sucked thin as bones,
face broken in and reconstructed, breasts blown
to a choice of Ds, endured as absolution.
When she goes home, what does the Head of State,
freshly installed, tell her? What ritual bull
do the new priests sacrifice? The bureaucrats
will do as bureaucrats do. When the wool
is snatched from her eyes, as the audience waits,
she feels her face, Oh my god! I’m beautiful.