like the woman who rides coach-
seventy-four years old
and going back home to arkansas-
she left a cat and dog in walnut ridge,
misses them,
tells me that she is scared she will go to heaven
before the dog does-
i tune her out when she talks to me
about jesus,
about how he’s coming back
soon, she stresses,
iran is persia in the bible,
and they’ve a madman running things now-

like the woman seated at my table in the dining car-
she drinks a strong jack and coke,
tells me about the insurance company
and her children,
my age? no, younger-
and leaves
when her drink is finished-

i am trying to earn america
by seeing it slowly,
the parts you miss
when you stay on the highway-

i am trying to earn america
by seeing it through the eyes
of people i have no choice
but to meet-

i am trying to earn america
if only to give myself
the right to reject it-

i reject the movies shown
in the lounge car,
i reject the kudzu
that’s reached east texas,
the price of a bottle of water-
but i am not mad at america-
not anymore-

i am not mad, america,
because there is no point,
taking offense at the weed-like spread
of your culture
like resenting a tsunami,
like holding contempt for a hurricane-

there is no virgin space left,
nowhere you have not left your tag on the wall
like trust jesus sprayed on an overpass,
no one you have not touched,
and anger with you
is anger with them,
with myself-

you are too large to hate,
too large to escape,
and attempting either
is a desperate futility
i would like to avoid
until i am old,
until bitterness traces
the lines in my face,
until i need the rage
to stave off the easy traps
of fear, of jesus,
until i am less sure of myself,
until the hurricane of america
has turned me into
a disaster area-

we are not virgins, america,
you have taken that from us-

but for now i forgive you
for the whores you have made
of your children,
at least until i have seen
how far the damage runs-

like the battered wife,
like the abused son,
i offer you my love,
seek your approval,
defend you to the strangers i meet on trains-
i speak of your generosity,
witnessed as unanticipated kindness-
witnessed as conspiritorial whispers-
i am beginning to know well
your secret complexities,
your hidden depths,
and so i am not mad at you anymore, america-

i like new orleans,
i like the hill country of texas,
and the beaches in wisconsin,
the music found in brooklyn
and in living rooms throughout the country-
i like the myths,
the legend of the west and of
breakdancing parties back east-
i am not mad at you anymore, america-
it would be hypocritical-
your kudzu-culture carries these things as well-
takes hip hop to france and westerns to australia-
these signs of an america
that may still exist-
somewhere-
even if it is meant only
for those who have earned it-

i don’t know how to ride a horse
and i’ve never fired a gun-
my boots are leather
but they were made in korea-