POETRY
My America
April Jones

I keep watching my America morph
into someone I don’t know, My America
is all cicada songs in sweltering summer heat, trees
as far as I can see, covered in
potential, people who keep trying, but
this America, the one led by a spray tan, is drowning
in hate based on skin tone. Gone is the promise of
the brave, replaced by the violence of the weak
minded, and all I can dredge up is a mourning song
because I’ve been trying to reason with hate mongers and
I can’t. I’m tired of my streets covered in blood, my t.v. screen
covered in hate, more hate, always hate, bursting
from dams of men who cower in the darkness
afraid of the light. It all makes me wonder if I ever really knew
her, if maybe I created something beautiful from air, and
maybe that’s the reason I can’t find her, because  she
was never really there, she was never really my mine.


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