When I tell my country
When I tell my country I’m depressed
I also say coward
but it’s so far away,
so deaf to blame.
For some weeks letters come
professing love, burning with rage,
blaming all of this on
apathy, fear, money
but my love, my honey,
you have always had a loud song.
Each day the quick kick of the dream
empties another body
and the ghosts move through unkempt streets
named Lincoln and Delaware,
spitting light everywhere.
The brown skin and the brown dust
go like oars into a great void
and we are bought with a few roses,
an indiscreet war.
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I apologize America
for what I said this morning.
The cars lock out of habit.
The river makes no sound.
Though I would like another leader
I know you are not a man,
just land.
I will plant the lilacs
and cut the green grass
one day longer
but I have sat angry on your front porch
long enough.
When I get home
from working two jobs
I will turn on my side
in this big blue bed,
scissor-kick myself somewhere new.
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Gabriel Vigh is a thirty-seven-year-old resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts. He grew up in a small town in northern Arkansas and has been writing poetry since middle school, though he studied engineering as an undergraduate. His work has also appeared in Portland Review. In addition to writing, he also enjoys composing electronic music and photography.
✶
Robert Casella lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.
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