Humiliating the Tyrants

Gone their armor and military uniforms,
their revolvers and engraved swords.
Gone their dignity as one by one
they’re shoved on stage: Genghis Khan
in red Speedos, his gut bulging above

a tinier bulge. Stalin in a wedding dress
with too much lipstick, too much rouge.
Napoleon’s not pushed but rolled
on stage in a baby carriage, diapered
and bonneted. When Hitler arrives

in a frilly pink tutu, you grab the bullhorn
from my hands. Pirouette! you shout.
He does. I take the bullhorn back,
push the trigger’s orange button. Tiptoe
to Stalin, lift his veil, and plant one.

He does. We take turns with the horn
and they all obey: Genghis Khan changes
Napoleon’s diaper, Napoleon rides Stalin
on piggyback, Stalin spanks Hitler,
his tutu quaking like a windblown carnation.

When Mao Tse-Tung stumbles out
dressed as Little Bo Peep, with a hook
and stuffed sheep under his arm, we wonder
if Nero’s next, what sort of getup
Mussolini’s in, if Pol Pot’s nervous

or not. We wonder who else is milling
backstage when again the red curtain
splits open—a waterfall of blood
spilling over the shoulders of another man
who had the world choking on bones.