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