America Anthems

The candles will not fit upon the cake.
We give them sky. The dark begins to shake.
250 years above the ground;
below, we pass the paper plates around.

A table held the ink before the cheers.
A page went out to argue with the years.
Now someone reads it where the children play;
a finger holds the folding crease in place.

A trumpet finds the spaces in the street.
A radio brings baseball to the heat.
Past rails and mills, a rocket climbs from view;
the Moon still holds the print of someone’s shoe.

The speakers call out 45, then skip
to 47. Someone lets it rip.
The comeback chorus gives the lawn a stage;
the screens fill up with code, a promised age.

2 fists describe their little arcs of flight.
A shoulder leans. The lawn takes up the night.
A rocket builder tries the steps again.
The smallest child shows everybody when.

In 1 song, even water gets renamed.
The map becomes a stage; the pen is raised.
A freighter sounds its horn across the bay.
The chorus gives the working lake its day.

Then marble, measured footsteps, tailored light:
Melania moves through the frame in white.
The song carries Slovenia in her name,
then turns toward children living through a screen —
the words they send, the words they must receive.
The music leaves a little room to breathe.

Another portrait opens on a page.
The midnight lamp precedes the public stage.
Usha reads a sentence through again.
The camera sees the stillness, not the pen
that paused above a phrase until it came clear.
The lawn grows quiet enough for us to hear.

Now, on the screen, another patch of grass.
A table. Students gathering between class.
A sign invites the crowd to test a claim.
A student takes the mic and gives a name.

Charlie leans toward the question in the air.
The crowd draws close; the camera holds them there.
A verse of scripture travels with his case.
His faith has brought him to this public place.

The answer earns a cheer. The student stays,
still holding something that the answer raised.
The microphone remains between the 2.
There is another sentence to get through.

Then comes the song that cannot call him back.
A hand turns down the volume half a notch.
The hymn calls Heaven home and lifts his name;
a candle gutters, then regains its flame.

The song remembers husband, father, friend.
The titles fall away before its end.
Someone who danced now watches without words.
The small sounds of the neighborhood are heard.

A hand rests on a shoulder. Someone brings
a chair. The porch light catches moths in rings.
For once, no one is reaching for a line
to make the silence mean the same each time.

We gather plates and brush the crumbs away.
1 person has a little more to say
about the question on the campus lawn.
Another stops, although their coat is on.

The chairs fold up. The grass keeps every mark.
1 porch light makes a clearing in the dark.
Someone reaches for the table’s legs.

Leave the table out.