Alexandra B

Politics and Poetry

What is America to you?

What does it look like?

What does it smell like?

What do you hear at night?

America to me is a soft cushion for me to land on

America to me is a sharp piece of glass on which I fall

I see the trees and the people and the laughter

I see the homeless and the drugs and the disaster

It smells of opportunity and freshly mowed grass

With metal coins that are our safety net

And yet

I also smell the cigarettes, the vomit, and the unconsenting sex

At night I hear the birds and the familiar buzz of machines

I also hear the gunshots and all the violent screams

All of this is America to me

She felt the sun of the heavens shining on her face

Kissing her cheeks

Her nose

Her eyelids

Her lips

At least she thought it was the heavens because what else could make something that bright

She opened her eyes and they stung with the seemingly endless luminosity

She lifted herself up

The never quite dry grass grazed against her skin

And he was there

So far away that he appeared as a blur

Completely out of reach

She never thought of him as beautiful

That was not a fair assessment

His face held millions of dots cascading away from the center of his nose

A wide scar sunk deep into his forehead

The only place devoid of spots and sunlight

But still

He was as radiant as the rising sun