The Lord is American

The world undresses 
its wounds. It wounds. This Father— 
His memory, torn 
clouds: forgetful weather. 
God’s goodness licks 
bowls bone-clean. Our fingers 
twist crumbs from air. 
We are hungry children 
abandoned by our country 
for bombs. For Rockets’ Red glare. How 
could we ever be patriots? 
My father is my flag. 
The national anthem is 
every word, every single word 
my mother could not whisper— 
could not say, 
could not say: 
her father colonized her. 
Made her mother nasty with jealousy. 
Could not say: she can’t stay 
In this world of touching. 
It maims. 
It elects evil. 
It is two gendered. 
It kneels on Sunday. 
The Lord is 
American & 
aims His rifle 
at us, His children 
once beggars 
rise into guerrillas.