after the poem, Let Me, by Camille T. Dungy
			
It’s no secret that honesty was never a bright star sewn on your flag. I was raised
            on esprit de corps, believed the one-for-all musketeers, and I stood
hand-over-heart repeating repeating repeating the flash cards of allegiance.

You were woven into the fabric we wore, written in textbooks, part
            of the alphabet. You were statistics and Social Science when 
wheat-rice-corn was grown in the breadbasket of America and that basket
            was right here. 

Born on the west edge of the continent, I am intimate with water and fire—
            I get their story. But I am a confusion of history, disjointed thought, uneasy 
using your name. How do you know Abe was honest? Who really told the tale
            of the cherry tree? 

Listen, America, across the road there’s a Steller’s Jay in the pine tree 
            more honest than you. I am borderless within the city limits—
I am black and white, yes and no, green and red. I cannot lie, America—
            you sure knocked a hole in this boat.

And I tell you, someone’s turned the lights out. Maybe everyone’s used 
            to living in the dark. And maybe some have come to love it
like the ghost fish who gave up their eyes, gave up the earth’s sidereal light,
            gave up morning and heat, candlelight and familiar faces, trading 
a sense for locale. What kind of bargain was that?

I can’t wrap my mind around it. Maybe it’s the real uncertainty principle. 
            Maybe it’s why we swing to extremes, a collective thought
with too much tug toward hate or love. We’ve never rowed together, 
            let alone bargained for the truth. I tell you, America, I am inside out.

I am all opinion, contradiction, North and South, a two-sided city, an honorable
            man on paper—we looked so good in green. 
We were something to sing about in Brooklyn. 

We were all wagon and hunger—we were the Motherlode of greed. Our veins 
            ran with silver, ran with coal, ran with oil, ran with gold.
This was the fool’s paradise—we even built a bowling alley on a redwood tree stump. 
            Now wasn’t that something?