Hold fast to dreams 

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

^{after Linda Hogan}

Nothing wants to suffer. Not the wind

as it scrapes itself against the cliff. Not the cliff

being eaten, slowly, by the sea. The earth does not want

to suffer the rough tread of those who do not notice it.

The trees do not want to suffer the axe, nor see

their sisters felled by root rot, mildew, rust. 

The coyote in its den. The puma stalking its prey.

These, too, want ease and a tender animal in the mouth

to take their hunger. An offering, one hopes, 

made quickly, and without much suffering.

The chair mourns an angry sitter. The lamp, a scalded moth.

A table, the weight of years of argument.

We know this, though we forget.

Not the shark nor the tiger, fanged as they are.

Nor the worm, content in its windowless world

of soil and stone. Not the stone, resting in its riverbed.

The riverbed, gazing up at the stars.

Least of all, the stars, ensconced in their canopy,

looking down at all of us— their offspring—

scattered so far beyond reach.

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.