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 –
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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