America Trembling

for Marie

I can hear America trembling.
Her frail fingers shake as she plays
each pallid key.
She sings
songs of caducity,
of resuscitated memory,
of infirmities since made well;
her voice declares victories,
feathered caps hung from laureled limbs.
But it quivers
and throbs,
straining where it used to spangle,
the roar of insignificance
catching in her goitered throat.

By Kristen Perillo