Ode to Her
On the eve of our nineteenth year, the sky cracked, its molten innards sloshing to and fro, its boiling yolk slipped out as our lips cried for home.
“Stand, stand, stand,” said the boy.
“If we are our country and our country is us.”
Then his motherland, quietly agreeing, gently cups him in her hands, and swallows him whole.
If I told you today, over oil of fish and scarf of red, that concrete would bloom a bud of crimson, would it ever compare to the wilt of before?
And upon the ashes of tomorrow, we pledge to see her once again.