We Still Love the Moon

Odilon Redon

I Met America at a Neighborhood Bar

He offered me a shot of rum and I reminded him

that Captain Morgan was a slave owner,

so the bartender awkwardly slipped another

liquid lie down my throat. I ordered another drink

and was channeled by dark spirits. The courage of

black ghosts who haunt American dreams.

I told him I loved him and I wanted him to sleep well.

“But I know I’ve been in your nightmares,”

I said. “I want to be your friend, but only if it’s a deep

relationship. Only if you show me that you are not scared

of your baggage. Bring your whole history to the table.”

America cracked open another beer as a tear

ran down his face. He said,

“I was born in a house not my own, and my fathers demanded

that their portraits hang on every wall. White paint covers each

brown brick and our backyard is a museum of unmarked graves.”

“Despite this, a garden grows,” I said. “And every home

can be torn down and rebuilt again.”