Ago 24, 2005


You are a country
the color of my skin.
They call you mother,
or father, or lover,
but I call you country.
I call you flesh,

and I've got this idea
- and I've got this idea
full in the stomach
like a punch - that you
were something that
came before I did, yes,

but also, that I ought
to work hard to push you
out as one gut-ripping,
blood-dripping giant
little child with the color
of everyone I've ever loved.

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