Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman had
ideas about what it meant to be a son and so he called his mother America and
never spoke to his father. When he said hello he said America. When he said goodbye he said America. The soldiers who had already lost everything were the
first to ask him why, and Whitman answered, America. Because he understood this was the only way
to treat everyone the same and that the difference between sun and son is more
than a letter. There's a pronunciation to
our freedom, he claimed. And in the hospital he'd squeeze the soldiers’
lips until they said it right. America.
America. Then he’d spread his arms
and no one ever knew if they should hug him or tell him they too heard the
difference. When a soldier died, Walt Whitman would make everyone awaiting a
similar fate say a prayer that went, America
America America America America. America. The soldiers wanted to know if
they were pronouncing it right. It became so hard to tell anything when they
had been dying such a long time. Whitman put a hand on their knees and nodded. America.
The City
It started with
rumors there were mountains behind the clouds. Americans wanted a place to get
falafel and maybe somewhere all the disaffected teenagers could flee when their
mayors wouldn't let them dance. They wanted something taller than the mountains
so they could look down on the faces and win against history. The City grew up
out of the ocean and everyone argued over whether or not it was an island. When
buildings began to disappear into the clouds, no one could agree whether or not
they were like stalagmites or stalactites. Or what the most authentic pizza
place was. Or which museum was the best. Or what hotdogs were made out of. Or
whether or not there was anything behind the clouds at all. Or if there was
something underneath them. So many questions that the city fell down. As they
bobbed in the water, Americans looked up and looked down and knew even less
about direction. If the city is an island then everything is an island and if
everything is an island there will be times the earth gets pulled back and the
waves come up. That's when we'll know where we've really been storing our dead.
* * * * * * * *
Adam Peterson lives in Houston where he co-edits The Cupboard, a quarterly prose chapbook series. He can be found online at Stock Photography Museum.
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