When this child of explosions
opens her mouth,
fences blow down.
When this child of fences
averts her eyes,
a flagpole bends.
When this child of the flagpole
sits down to dinner,
the meat burns phosphor white.
flagpole child, fence and
explosion child, offspring
of the warrior age, largely unparented by us,
fostered more by the fire and the wind,
fed on and led on and made to dance
hot and crushed, around and around –
oh, my country, ’tis of thee, sweet child,
of thee I sing. Throw yourself
into the cold, roll till you’re quiet
and quenched — then get
as far away from us as you possibly can.