Trigger Warning
Do we live in the South
undefeated, proud as a fighting cock,
or a dog that has tasted blood,
a hound left outside too long
with the corpse of its delusions?
Do we live in the North,
reticent, abolitionist,
a loaf of bread halved,
white Robert Frost hair,
flannel shirt, pallid skin,
strong octogenarian muscles beneath,
the white clapboard of religion
and the call of the church bell
throughout the valley?
Do we live in the East
where dreams grow up in boxes,
colors are smeared with grease, dust,
the past is dug up and serves
fast food in the school cafeteria,
silhouettes of Lincoln, Washington
cut from red construction paper,
pasted on bulletin boards.
Do we live in the West
where dreams must stop at the Pacific,
stowaway on the aerodynamics of jet-engines.
Zoom-zoom cars idle at the rippling water,
beyond which west becomes east?
Do we inhabit the America
of abstract words like “Democracy,”
or do our regional differences
particularize us so,
that we’d string up a Yankee,
or ostracize hillbilly Jake,
or segregate the “Injuns”?
Where do we live?
In the marble of our ideals
or in the dirt of our blood?
Who are we that call ourselves “American”?
Are we people of one color or another,
or do we share common ideals,
or is it just about the money?
Where do we live in our hearts?