I Will Not Give Up on You, America

because I have seen the cool blue of your mountains
and heard the voices of your children rising to meet them.

It almost feels like enough

until I let the soles of my feet sink sufficiently into your soil
and feel myself become an intruder of a deeper, untold story.

Sometimes I swear I can still hear the dead scream
just standing there, listening to your heartbeat—

red, white, blue—

The dead that built you. The dead you buried.

America, I want to believe in your goodness.

That you are still a breathing, wild thing,
that grace grows apart from your gardens and cities,
that there is more to you than just your wickedness.

Tell me the story.

Read to me so I can help you

rewrite it.

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