I had to get new skin
in order to spy for the great [blank] nation.
Not figuratively, no!
Actual dermis, ripped from my sinews and muscles
like carpet being replaced in an office building.
New comfy, cozy, unmarked beige skin-carpet,
stapled into place by someone with a tie and no first name.
The mess made is sopped up by old receipts,
order forms, certificates in different languages.
Blood and fat and pain ooze out of my now-dead pores,
I stare blankly, with pride of country.
So now I can spy because my skin has no shades
or memory or marks of nostalgia or time.
Loosely, it forms.
I learn to use this new skin although it
stares back at me blankly, lobotomized.
Without it, my body has no bag to keep it whole.
With it, I am heroic, peaceful, blank.