Aubade for Our Sweet America

In the night, as we lay nude

in a snare of linen, soft as primrose petals,

he wears one black tube sock over his ankle monitor.

I won’t laugh. His ankle blinks green, brighter

than the northern star we saw last summer

in the woods, before his house arrest. 

Before the routine of marked locations

and overthinking the panopticon of street cameras,

he spoke of herding cattle near the lone pond

on the outskirts of the Illinois river,

where we visited last summer in the woods

and spotted a loon coiled in a steel cage. 

He is losing weight. No one is answering

his calls for work. His hunger, howling.

I offer empathy, an unpalatable, empty meal.

When the sun rises, I ready and leave for work,

shutting the door of his apartment-cell

to the sounds of shuffling feet, of laughter,

of the wings from thrushes in the shrubbery,

and of day releasing light over the green. 

---

Cover Photo by: Bernadetta Watts