2019-09-27
by Eleanor Goldfield

Before the swastika, there were the stars and stripes.

There was the city upon the hill

whose gleaming spires were built by enslaved hands

chained to a destiny

that’s still on lock.

Indeed, our manifest destiny

appears to be

kings of a graveyard –

to fall in on ourselves

in a sea of plastic and bodies and pride –

always pride.

And we manifest it daily,

birth it in the wards

where the forgotten hoards

can’t afford to live free –

but die brave.

This is part of a new series called “Poetry Plates” that I may turn into a book…

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