The truth is, Iāve never cared for the National
Anthem. If you think about it, itās not a good
song. Too high for most of us with āthe rockets
red glareā and then there are the bombs.
(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)
Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
even the tenacious high school band off key.
But the song didnāt mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
we never sing, the third that mentions āno refuge
could save the hireling and the slaveā? Perhaps,
the truth is, every song of this country
has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
hoping our team wins. Donāt get me wrong, I do
like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
like water, elemental, and best when itās humbled,
brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
has lost everything, when itās not a weapon,
when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
you can keep it until itās needed, until you can
love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,
the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
unpoisoned, that song thatās our birthright,
thatās sung in silence when itās too hard to go on,
that sounds like someoneās rough fingers weaving
into anotherās, that sounds like a match being lit
in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
and isnāt that enough?
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
snowghoul
romaincrisis
