Trouble With the Stars and Stripes

By Naomi Shihab Nye

I couldn't make my annual flag cake, the one with strawberries for stripes and blueberries for states and white mountain frosting puffing up proudly between. I couldn't even wear a bandanna on the 4th of July. It hurts, this year. Let's talk about the difference between victory and public relations. Let's talk about the size of words. I weighed words during the war, putting them on secret scales, and never once did things balance out. My husband who never shouts shouted in his sleep while the bombs were dropping, "I just don't think humans are doing a very good job!" After the war he traveled to Iraq to make photographs. We have no idea. We can still feel good in this country about what we don't see, if we give it a good enough name. All forms of righteousness begin to terrify. A presidential address, a church. My husband stares when he hears certain words. My enemy - "Who is so beautiful," he whispers.

Shelter

By Marda Messick

My grandmother ran a day care in Atlanta,

The Sheltering Arms. 

There was a playground with a fleet of tricycles,

saltines and orange juice in little cups

and real arms to lift and calm.

Uncle John made a 16mm film

of me in my red coat and bonnet  

teetering in a hug with my cousin,

certain already what arms are for. 

Now I shelter, aging in place

without embrace. 

Marda Messick is a poet living in Tallahassee, Florida. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Christian Century and Literary Mama.