These Days

by Jeanne Sirotkin

My memory is shot

except I remember

days of fighting fascism

days of hiding under desks

waiting

for nuclear bombs to fall

No blood on this ground

-oh, never here

not since we butchered

or removed

the Anishinaabe, the Iroquois, the buffalo

Trespassers will be prosecuted

Trespassers will be shot

Signs posted:  No Negroes, No Jews

No dogs

Memory isn’t skin deep

It’s a splinter in the heart

It’s a mote in the eye

Stand and witness

Raise your right hand and pledge

until death do us part

my country tis of thee

I will wrench you back

from the grave

I will hold your head up

as we tread water

waving frantically for a boat,

or a rope, or the tide to change

and throw us ashore

What once was music

rising again from the sand

Each grain its own song.

2/21/25