Stephen Anderson, High Wire
the forge
america is a newborn loaded up
with notions of democratic grandeur
yet-to-mature, america is every
sweat-john & jane doe
treading on its backbone trying to find
their own song, america is everything
to Lady Liberty, but shift-shaped nightmares
to most of the people pounding its streets,
america is the victim of historical spasms of
hypocrisy, people being dislocated from land
to land by others locating on that land, america
has had its share of vile corruption that has
rotted our roots, america is contented customers,
with its Fords, Chevys, Oldsmobiles, Coca Cola
& Marlboros, rich oil & gas & coal & lest we forget
steel companies that all built this hulking, guzzling
juggernaut phenomenon that still is a home & isn’t a home
to its huddled masses, those good-faith immigrants
sprung far & wide with constitutionally-derived
notions from the framers of this novice, upstart
nation that has rewarded only those who
circle up their wagons to fend off any perceived
adversity, america is children hiding under their
school desks to avoid death by gunfire, america
is a child of change but doesn’t yet know it, america
has become divided, like it or not, into distinct blue
& red territories, primed & prepped for a clash,
a fragmentation of brothers & sisters, family & friends,
a condition of cultish, cultural clash very apt to bleed
america into a moribund coma, not unlike that of a
terminally-ill child still dreaming like Horatio Alger
to someday become whole.
Linda McCauley Freeman
The Photo
Taken of my parents and me on the gangplank
of a restored Paddlewheel Riverboat. One of those photos
venders take without asking, then charge you to keep.
My father has this photo, framed on his dresser.
My mother’s hair, golden where the sun has caught it,
her mouth wide, smiling. My father next to her, holding
her jacket in front of him. And the jagged cut between them,
where he’d scissored me out of the picture
and pasted the two of them together.