America: The ‘80s ghost

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

THE indictment cites the ’80s ghost.
The briefing notes list cartels.
The planes arrive,
their sides stenciled JUSTICE,
a word meant to gild
an old, imperial greed.

Back home, a senator’s son
buys his eighth gram
from a man
whose business license
is a badge.

The fury recognizes not
the powder in the plastic bag
but the rock grease
in Orinoco’s womb
that must sell for pennies,
never for a hoisted flag.

They don’t storm the Miami condos
where the dollar bleaches
whiter than surgical gauze.
They storm the ministries in Caracas
where the maps are stained
a colour unlost to lure:
the maddening redness
of a soil unleasing its soul.

Another man falls in a D.C. alley,
needle in his arm.
No satellites turn.
No assets frozen.
His death’s a local statistic,
no geopolitical pretext.

It was never about the ’80s ghost,
but about
who brews the cure
and who is declared
the plague.