Summary
The world undresses its wounds. It wounds. This Father— His memory, torn clouds: forgetful weather. God’s goodness licks bowls bone-clean. Our fingers twist crumbs from air. We are hungry children abandoned by our country for bombs. For Rockets’ Red glare. How could we ever be patriots? My father is my flag. The national anthem is every word, every single word my mother could not whisper— could not say, could not say: her father colonized her. Made her mother nasty with jealousy. Could not say: she can’t stay In this world of touching. It maims. It elects evil. It is two gendered. It kneels on Sunday. The Lord is American & aims His rifle at us, His children once beggars rise into guerrillas.
