American Bones by Bonnie Carasso


I am the bones whitewashed in the sun,

the red-blooded ink of an Old World

visa faded, crumbled into careless history.


I am the picket fence I made others paint,

dividing lands and neighbors, always

taking the bigger half for myself.


I am the fine print,

the fountain sign,


the redline,

the badge


and the wall.


I am the false hope in a harbor,

the false memory of glory on a hill

you sent your children to die on.


Tonight, I am the story you tell yourself

before you kiss your gun goodnight.