My country under construction.
Early sounds of hammering, hollow as a bell, or striking thick like a log.
The sounds accompany troubled dreams.
I wonder as I wake up,
what we've become.
The hammering, as in bells, fists, clubs, clasping
hands.
The hammering bands round
the heart, round as beads, rosary recitations.
Empathic or fanatic?
We control the breath, the praying sounds.
And then, slowly, the hands, arms, our bodies smacking
to the ground around us.
The knees. The pleas.
My chest constricts.
The hammering, as in the voices of interruption,
the threats, the scenes of confusion, the violent memes.
What lies are within us?
What lies are before us?
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