A Small American Prayer

by Ondřej Pazdírek

Kettle clouds, tumbleweeds, slow-moving cattle,
America I feel frothy, a boiled, soft chicken skin,
I lick my gloom and tear my seams, I stay in.

Horns of a truck, gator’s blood, swing of a bat,
America tumble me happy, whisper me sad
triumphant tales to sleep, fill me with whales

like snowy mountains, obsession and apotheosis,
wrap me in fleece. America, what do I have
to show you for my liquid life’s concentric ripples

but a few egg-shaped stones, a few locked glass doors,
funny mirrors, and the two concrete sidewalks I poured,
but a few trinkets made for anyone with money.