America I Do Not Call Your Name Without Hope Poem by Dean Rader

America, I Do Not Call Your Name Without Hope

After Neruda

Not even with your knife against my throat,
or when you drag my chair under the bulb
or tell me to place my hands behind my back.
These cuffs connect us like two outlaws
on the run from history's white horse. Its hard whip
a firecracker in the ear. Lost land, this is a song
for the scars on your back, for your blistered feet and
and beautiful watch, it is for your windmills,
your magic machines, for your fists. This is for
your wagon of blood, for your dogs and their teeth
of fire, for the hearts you harvested like wheat
from a field. This is for your verbs, your black lurk,
your whir. This is for your mouths, for your fear,
for your bandaged bones that one day may sing.
This is for your singing. This is for the past,
but it is not for the past. This is for daybreak
and backbreak, for dreams and for darkness.
This song is not for the flag or your fight,
but it is a song for fighting. It is a song of flame
but not for burning. It is the song I will sing
when you knock on my door, my son's name in your mouth.