By Janice Gould
There is no nation in my heart.
In the canyon which was once our home,
Burning water springs from the rock.
We sing for the dead who leave no ghost.
In my heart there is no nation.
Strong winds blow on our land.
The winds go wild – coyotes attack humans,
Condors spite the world with their demise,
Sea mammals beach themselves on an outgoing tide.
The nation in my heart is dead.
Our blood turns to powder and swirls to lightening.
Your blood burns air, too. The land flattens out.
An ash cloud forms with your passing.
The nation which never was is gone.
The lives of our dead do not trouble those who eat.
We drink from dry wells
while your grapes grow thick on vine.
Our children cry, We don’t have no shoes.
Your children chant, America.