Democracy in America, she said,
has always been aspirational,
the bronze bell of its summons
rung by noble oligarchs
with blood on their soft white hands—
which is not to say that Democracy
in America isn’t inspirational,
isn’t a flickering beacon above
some battered shore awash in bodies—
in fact, it’s always both—
the opened arms, the double-
locked gate—which leaves us here
together, always separate, never
equal, mouthing the words
for breakfast, spitting them out
before lunch, all of us trying
to love what never loved us
back like it said it would—
those bell-tower words shimmering,
reverting to mere air from which
they were made, proving again
Democracy in America has always
been, will always be, just this:
respirational. Watch your breath,
the yogi says, feel it buzzing with
multitudinous life, each time
you welcome it in, and let it go.