The American Child: A Poem for Christina Green
And this one’s for you,
the broken ballerina,
born into tragedy
and leaving the same.
Always in a land,
where fearing your fellow man,
bleeds the city, bleeds the airports,
bleeds the passports, bleeds the borders
dry.
We cry,
for Preston Brooks returned,
to wield his bloody cane,
and lay his crosshairs on you,
which were quietly taken down,
by patriots,
spitting their words,
from behind dusty Bibles,
they use as props in a play.
So sleep now,
you broken ballerina,
for tomorrow will be a big day,
of people slowly forgetting your name.
For information on the background of this poem and, more importantly, Christina, click here.