A shovel scraping bare
rock, carving up another little piece of my heart,
hoarse with it, coarse with it,
the shrill trills and come-on cries,
no slaking that thirst, that voice a saber
of thistles and pearl, that American way of making it
all up, severing the tyranny
of home ties, peacocking,
packed tight in gold lamé
like black powder
in a flintlock musket,
her colonies rebellious, and all
embargoed cargo dumped
from the dock.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.