i stand by the edge of the lake
four-day wait for
my period to come,
in a dorm room far
from home
wake to a feeling of
pooling inside me—
fingers fold wet &
color copper-red
—no daughter,
this daughter
had already thought through
not hearing from you
& what sweater i’d wear
when i took those pills at home
outer casing of hickory nut,
green heron flying low
—she’s walking away now
& i don’t know how
to tell her why—
America is a glacier receding from the highway in southcentral Alaska. America is a swoop of eagles from the evergreen down to the water’s edge. America could be the ship leaving the port—instead, a rising tide that erodes the shore is America. I was told America is the New World, is the Land of Opportunity. America is a fresh slice of unleavened bread, spit out onto the conveyor belt at the Wonder Bread factory. America is sick-care and an epidemic of loneliness.
America was open plains and bison and a communion with the land. America was lupine sown in the fields by air kiting air itself. America was a Seminole woman who caught the eye of a descendant of the Mayflower. America is my mother’s mother’s mother, who saved old bread crusts in milk. America is my mother’s mother’s mother, to her husband, the “stony Indian.” America is my mother’s mother’s mother, whose name means little gold.
America was the last word on your tongue when the last tree was felled. America is Johnny Appleseed and original sin. I’ve been told America is the Land of the Free; yet it will take more of us brave to guarantee apples for all. America could be the last train out of dodge—yet the tracks laid by blood, sweat, and xenophobia are America. When I think of America, I think of you.
America is me confronting my privilege. America is me standing on the shoulders of my parents, who stood for getting away from the Midwest, the Catholic Church, a grandfather’s roving hands. America is which neighborhood you were born in and how far away the bus will take you. If you want to find America, try Amazon.com. America requests your attendance at its arraignment next Friday. America is buying and selling. America is bought and sold.
America is a musician living on food stamps. America is a $400,000 college education. America is a recent grad working at a call center. America is a debt collector. America is a bounty hunter. America is you on your hands and knees on the sidewalk in the rain as cars whiz by, looking for your credit card. America was you last week on a 50-hour hold for unemployment assistance. America is the pay phone ringing off the hook in the penitentiary. America is the pay phone ringing off the hook in the Amazon fulfillment center. America is the phantom phone that rings only in your sleep. America is the alarm that never wakes you up on time. America is the alarm that rings in your ears every waking hour.
America is the sight of the mail truck trundling along. America is the sight of twenty types of cereal on the supermarket shelves. America is the sight of vanishing shelves, a food desert two neighborhoods over. America is the scent of bacon frying in the pan. America is the scent of napalm in the morning. America is the taste of pizza and Coke. America is the taste of beans and rice. America is the taste of migrant labor. America is the sound of the Pledge of Allegiance. America is the sound of the stadium’s roar. America is the sound of a dentist’s drill. America is the sound of assimilation.
America, what am I to you? Am I the sound of hard shoes tapping out a rhythm on the floorboards of my great-great-grandfather’s St. Louis pub? Or am I the signs once posted a street over, “Irish need not apply here.” America is calling your name. America is calling your future daughter’s name. America is forgetting your great-great-grandmother’s name. America is recalling that feeling you cannot name. America is running away from home. America is moving into the dorms. America is lining up outside the soup kitchen. America is waiting for you at the bus stop in a heat-lightning storm. America is me waiting for you but you never show up. America, are you listening? America, pick up the phone.
America is a ballot box. America is a free election. America is a democratic republic. America, what is a democratic republic? America is the product of a free market. America was built by slave labor. America is a student raising her hand. America is a woman marrying a woman. America is opening your own bookstore. America is closing your own bookstore. America is an open book. America is a dog-eared page. America is an iMessage received but unread; is the grey thought-bubble your ex-lover sees, as you decide what to type.
