remember not understanding what red white and blue meant

america is a kindergartner with her hair in pigtails. her

eyes are bright blue & curious. she wants to know the answers

to everything and she can't understand why

no one will tell her.

america is a doll at the sunday dinner table, swallowed

by pink tulle. she bounces in her seat, watching

her uncle turn purple with rage over something called politics. her

older sister chews her lip & carries her quietly out of the room.

america loves her long name, writes it carefully

across the poster board in big red letters. the R is backwards &

her mother corrects it gently, knowing someday she'll learn

who not to trust.

america thinks herself grown up, trying on her

grandmother's high heels in the kitchen where people

she doesn't know sit talking. they smile at her vaguely, 

their eyes glazed over. she wonders why they're always talking

about what to do, what to do.

america is the child alone on the swings,

the playground wind-blown & empty. she is too young to understand

war and turmoil and government. what she does know

is the feeling of loneliness, of reaching

your hand out

and watching the other children

pull theirs back.