by Judy Trupin
holding in their fingers the shreds of constitution
tattered perhaps beyond repair
The insurrectionists running free, absolved
I hear America crying
the carpenter and the mason being dragged away
by the chilling iceman
their families slipping on their tears
and murmuring to each other
What is this land in which we dwell?
A boatman turned pilot ferries them away to
prisons in countries unknown
I hear America crying
as judges erase the law of the land
another pilot does not cry but grits his teeth
as he drops his bombs
preserving his president’s honor but nothing else
I hear America reeling as yes becomes no
and truth morphs into lies
I hear America whispering
too afraid to sing
to afraid to shout
huddling in their homes
uncertain what the night will bring
or when the night will end
and if they will sing
and if they will sing
again.
tattered perhaps beyond repair
The insurrectionists running free, absolved
I hear America crying
the carpenter and the mason being dragged away
by the chilling iceman
their families slipping on their tears
and murmuring to each other
What is this land in which we dwell?
A boatman turned pilot ferries them away to
prisons in countries unknown
I hear America crying
as judges erase the law of the land
another pilot does not cry but grits his teeth
as he drops his bombs
preserving his president’s honor but nothing else
I hear America reeling as yes becomes no
and truth morphs into lies
I hear America whispering
too afraid to sing
to afraid to shout
huddling in their homes
uncertain what the night will bring
or when the night will end
and if they will sing
and if they will sing
again.
Judy Trupin lives, writes, and thinks in Pittsburgh, PA. Walking, teaching and practicing yoga and singing to her plants keeps her sane.