by Dick Altman
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I imagine my grandparents, who traded the Old Country for America, asking me today, Should we come? Should we come, given the chance? I try clearing the knotted throat of my mind, to find an answer. Would I want to start life over, tattered and patched, I ask myself, in a land, that didn’t want me? I reel from today’s headlines, sleepless, as I wander the streets of my American Dream, comforting, familiar, welcoming no longer. But where to go, begin anew? America, you’ve shaken the globe off its footings. Turned yourself, in many minds, into a nightmare of economic submission. Turned your back on those yearning, deserving, to be free. I feel estranged, increasingly out of touch. The periodic table of my life— all the elements that spark mind/ body/spirit— my American Dream’s essence, runs riot. Have I reached the terminus, where it’s no longer if you, my country, want me? I plumb the dark for harmony, once heart of the American Dream. The day’s unfurling, a rampage of dissonance, ravages my sleep.
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Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, aming others. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 250 poems published on four continents.
Your words resonate deeply in this America we can barely recognize.