<html><head><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><div class="">America, I Sing Back </div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span style="font-size: 14px;" class=""><i class="">- for Phil Young, my father, Robert Hedge Coke, Whitman, and Hughes</i></span></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.</div><div class="">Sing back the moment you cherished breath.</div><div class="">Sing you home into yourself and back to reason.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Oh, before America began to sing, I sung her to sleep,</div><div class="">held her cradleboard, wept her into day.</div><div class="">My song gave her creation, prepared her delivery,</div><div class="">held her severed cord beautifully beaded.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">My song helped her stand, held her hand for first steps,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">nourished her very being, fed her, placed her three sisters strong.</div><div class="">My song comforted her as she battled my reason</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">broke my long held footing sure, as any child might do.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Lo, as she pushed herself away, forced me to remove myself,</div><div class="">as I cried this country, my song grew roses in each tear’s fall.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">My blood veined rivers, painted pipestone quarries</div><div class="">circled canyons, while she made herself maiden fine.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Oh, but here I am, here I am, here, I remain high on each and every peak,</div><div class="">carefully rumbling her great underbelly, prepared to pour forth singing—</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">and sing again I will, as I have always done.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Never silenced unless in the company of strangers, singing</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">the stoic face, polite repose, polite, while dancing deep inside, polite</div><div class="">Mother of her world. Sister of myself.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">When my song sings aloud again. When I call her back to cradle.</div><div class="">Call her to peer into waters, to behold herself in dark and light,</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">day and night, call her to sing along, call her to mature, to envision—</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Then, she will make herself over. My song will make it so</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">When she grows far past her self-considered purpose,</div><div class="">I will sing her back, sing her back. I will sing. Oh, I will—I do.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Allison Adelle Hedge Coke</div></div></body></html>