The Gods
A poem of American mythology
Just because we didn’t build them statues
or raise them temples cool and austere
does not mean there are no gods.
Oh, America, they have always loved you.
They huddle close, warmed by your kitschy fire
and sugar-stoked metabolism.
When the August sun poaches Midwestern Interstates
the land exhales pig shit and oxygen alike,
and ripples of fecund heat are visible
rising translucent and still from their roots
in the grain, and sometimes —
sometimes —
a grand illumined figure is visible too,
standing, smiling, and just
breathing it all in.
This poem was first published in Twin City Magazine of Science Fiction and Fantasy (2003).
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