can I speak to you in my native tongue–

metaphor, symbol, and synecdoche–

when the dark has come and

the colors have run,

blue and red from my country’s flag,

mixed into the color of bruises at

the flag pole’s base and the

blood has drained from her pretty face…

 

can I call you by name from the cloud

of witnesses gathered,

like October leaves in Times Square

through the gathering darkness and

expect you to answer?

 

would you rise from your Ten-Minutes-to-Midnight slumber,

comb your luxurious hair and

meet me to stand before the toxic wind?

 

for I have nothing but loose change

and a few cryptic rhymes to

hold back the clouds here at the

end of time and

A small, weak hand, stained with

ink and blood; a whitewashed house

we mistook for faith; a rhyming pledge

we mistook for love–

 

can I speak to you, in the

gathering storm, a few seditious whispers

in poetic form of an

eagle dying in a skeletal tree;

of a woman crying in a polluted sea;

of blood on the roots of liberty’s tree?

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