Is it these clumps of soil strewn together
On the Pacific ocean? Mounds of volcanic ash
Rocks with no meaning.
Countries are in the hearts
Of men (or women, for that matter);
Not in lines drawn on maps
By powerful men (said Michael O).
And this is what I believe:
My country is in my heart,
All the imperfect parts of it –
The slavery of the past
And the whisper of a future.
The shadows and the rain.
The hands with grime,
Swollen bellies, forgotten uteruses
Littering streets paved with gold.
My country is that sound tapping against
My car window as we speed
Through a traffic light.