Our Free Union (With respect to André Breton)
My country with the hair of inlaid fiber-optic cable
With the thoughts of a backed up four-lane freeway at dusk
With the waist of a redwood in the center of a scenic bypass
My country with the lips of blinking Christmas lights
With lips of teabags of silt from the Great Lakes
With the teeth of a picket fence on a shifting, slumping shoreline
With the tongue of a ticker tape parade on celluloid stock
My country with the tongue of a televised courtroom
With the tongue of a satellite that spies in dark silence
With the tongue of a cracked bell that just rings and rings on command
With the eyelashes of high-tension wires
With brows of the edge of a sold-out stadium
My country with the brow of a blue light under the sheets
And of the steam rising from an executive sauna fifty stories high
My country with shoulders of interstate concrete
And of a hydroelectric dam holding back the stars
My country with fingers of a ballot box—contested, sticky, messy
Of a strewn deck of plastic cards
My country with armpits of coal dust and scented bubble tea
Of suburban sprawl and the nest of a bald eagle in a cell tower
With arms of Mississippi tributaries and of a thousand assembly lines
And of a mingling of the cornfield and ambushed migrant workers
My country with legs of elusive wildfires
With the movements of a swing state and a jazz festival
My country with calves of sequoia bark
My country with feet of broken treaties and numbered amendments
With feet of subway tracks and tourists flicking coins into canyons
My country with a neck of unharvested wheat
My country with a throat of pulsing fiber and high-powered cooling fans
Of a protest stage-shrieking in the bed of a dry river
With breasts of the Appalachian night
My country with breasts of a multi-story shopping mall
Of a ghost town shadowed by the noonday sun
My country with the belly of a thumb-scrolled digital map
With a back of an abandoned silver screen
My country with the back of a cruise ship climbing into the stratosphere
With a nape of red clay and cooling asphalt
And of the threads of a smudged napkin on a diner counter at 3:00 AM
My country with hips of a barreling NextGen Acela
With hips of a county rodeo and of Friday night tossed penalty flags
Of a pendulum swinging between fairground stand food and Michelin starred dining
My country with buttocks of Civil War reenactments
Of a buttocks of uncirculated library books
Of a buffalo nickel gifted to a grandchild
My country with the loins of an offshore drill and of grocery store pharmacy
Of prairie grass and vintage baseball cards
My country with loins of theme park hydraulic launch coasters
My country with ears full of rotating sirens
Of ears of the Great Prairies and fast food in the car
Of eyes of parabolic, steerable radio telescopes
My country with eyes of a flatscreen TV left on at night
With eyes of a forest gasping for breath…
The eyes of my country turned toward we, the people
Hands held out for an answer, cuffed and arrested for expediency.
— zumwalt (Dec. 31, 2025)
zumpoems 