I love the idea of America,
no, not that empire-wide soaring
keloid raised from my ancestors’ flesh
as they slogged in the blood-sponge
of burglarized native land,
quick-sanded to this day,
but that great lifted voice in praise song
that spurred the abolitionists on,
the earned sanctuary of those who
suffered mightily so that I
might suffer only moderately,
the hope upon a star of fire
and black rock and
ever-blazing determination,
that a century after abolition inspired
my eighth-grade teacher,
a brown genteel pianist,
to pummel the keys as a hundred
young black voices sang
her chosen graduation songs:
“This is my country,
land of my birth . . .
This is my country,
grandest on earth.”
And we sang “Born Free--
as free as the wind blows,
as free as the grass grows,
born free to follow your heart.”
And I wanted to grow up
to be an American--
if only they would let me.
But now I know that America
is where you find her.
And as Woody Guthrie put it,
“from the redwood forest to
the gulf stream waters,”
I will look for her forever.
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