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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