The America I Know Could Use a Good Cry
Originally published in The Birth of All Things (Free Verse Press, 2020)
I met America at a neighborhood bar.
He offered me a shot of rum and I reminded
him that Captain Morgan was a slave owner,
so the bartender awkwardly slipped another
liquid lie down my throat. I ordered another
drink and was channeled by dark spirits.
The courage of Black ghosts who haunt
American dreams.
I told him I loved him and I wanted him to sleep well.
“But I know I’ve been in your nightmares,” I said.
“I want to be your friend, but only if it’s a deep
relationship. Only if you show me that you are not
scared of your baggage. Bring your whole history
to the table.”
America cracked open another beer as a tear
ran down his face. He said,
“I was born in a house not my own, and my
fathers demanded that their portraits hang on
every wall. White paint covers each brown brick
and our backyard is a museum of unmarked graves.”
“Despite this, a garden grows,” I said. “And
every home can be torn down and rebuilt again.”
“But I’ve been told I shouldn’t completely let you in,”
he said. “Some people in my family stand in the
doorway, blocking the entrance.”
He left before I could tell him that my people
have a history of finding ways inside broken
spaces and making them whole again.
Marcus Amaker, Charleston’s first Poet Laureate, balances daily naps with an eclectic career as a dad, husband, opera writer, and Academy of American Poets fellow. Inducted into the S.C. Literary Hall of Fame, he has published ten books and released 43 music albums. His reimagined version of “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee” was featured at President Biden’s 2021 inauguration by the Washington National Opera. His original opera, The Weight of Light, debuted in Chicago in 2024. Amaker’s work has garnered recognition from Literary Hub, The Washington Post, PBS Newshour, American Poets Magazine, and more.
The Marbled Sigh 