i know i am American

by Waverly Vernon

i know i am
because a thumb rests easy
on the plastic button,
the room fills
with nothing but my own breathing.

the commentator’s mouth still moves,
silent now,
a mime of authority.
a mother’s scream clipped mid-syllable.
the building collapsing in real time
becomes static.

this is the arithmetic of empire—
comfort subtracted
from someone else’s body.
a silence manufactured,

this is the part of citizenship no one tells you about—
that the switch in your hand
is also a trigger.
that luxury
is measured in how many bodies
you can look away from.

i eat dinner.
i wash dishes.
i text a friend about the weather.

meanwhile,
a father digs through concrete,
finds his daughter’s hair ribbon
before he finds her hand.

i try to sleep.
in my dream, the channel is still running.
no mute button.
no blackout.
just a city on loop,
bombed again,
again,
again.

i wake.
the room is quiet.
the tv black.

and still—
someone dies.