WEBVTT

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We don't choose what we
write, the times we live in,

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live in us.

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As with this poem which
was written just now.

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I live in Center
City Philadelphia.

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In close proximity to the icons
of the American Revolution,

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the Liberty Bell,
Independence Hall,

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where the Declaration
and the Constitution

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were debated and signed.

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Nearby is the Betsy Ross house,
where there is always a woman

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guide impersonating Betsy,
wearing the long dress,

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and the little white bonnet of
the late 1700s as if she were

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still among us.

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And so she is.

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Betsy Ross sewing.

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Betsy is sitting with a
pile of fabrics in her lap,

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scattered on her table,
folded on her shelves.

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There is trouble in the
streets and shouting.

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She picks up the long needle
with its supple thread lightly.

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She raises it in the
air, mutters a prayer,

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pulls the needle through
the fabric she has chosen:

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a torn black silk, a
strip of mourning cloth,

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dark as a night without stars.

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Beside it, she sews a
strip of ragged white,

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remnant of a bridal
gown or a winding sheet.

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Now, row by row,
stitch by stitch,

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she sews for hours
into the night,

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her face lit by
the hearth's glow.

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When she is done she goes out
and taking the black and white

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flag she has sewn.

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She dips it in the blood that
is running in the streets.

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Now, tripping over the
cobblestones, she hurries back,

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dries the wet flag by the fire.

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As the cock crows, the
banging at her door

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says they have
come for the flag.

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She adds a streak of blue satin.

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Because it is dawn, always
dawn somewhere, and now

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its blue shines.

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As the knocking grows
louder, more insistent,

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she chooses a piece of glinting
gold lamé from an old ball gown.

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But no, she thinks the
gold will ruin the design.

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As she rises to answer the
door, the edge of the flag

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catches in the inverse of
the night's hearth fire,

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smolders a moment till the
cloth bursts into flames.

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The wind from the open door
fans them, and in a moment

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it is ash, a heap
of glowing gray ash.

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The draft from the still open
door, where the men stare.

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Lifts the ashes into the air.

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A gray cloud like a breath
of a history expired.

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And as the men curse, she slams
the door like a hard sound.

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At the end of a verse.

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Because the milk is
spilt, the wind is cold.

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She has promised repair
to her neighbor's quilt.

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And the day grows old.

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[APPLAUSE]

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