C. Henry Smith
There is, of course, the chance
we don’t recover. The chance
that the stain doesn’t
come out. Of our flag,
I can’t say much. Perhaps if there
were more stars (thousands) and they
were sewn of all colors, the old square gone,
the stripes up and down made to look
like the night (or the sea below
so stitch-fixed wet stars
may gaze back at themselves). To reflag a nation,
would that wash it clean? Or to join hands and hold
our country underwater until it is still again.
As it was once for elms and wild grasses,
for pumpkins and skunks. We meant to take
more pictures then, but there was always something,
someone who needed cleansing. We are water.
Well over half. Why are we not more
reflective? Why do we not squish to the touch,
leave trails behind so you find us
in the night when we run off (not far),
just down the hall for another glass of us?