My brother, expecting, thinking, what? That the wind would waft our father's ashes Gently out of his hand, convey them As though a squall of butterflies, as White bits of the soul, as wafer Upon the tongue, to dissolve
For a flag! I answered facetiously. A flag of tomorrow, fluent in fire, not just the whispers, lisps, not just the still there of powdered wigs, dry winds. Who wants a speckled drape that folds as easy over smirch as fallen soldier? This is rhetorical. Like, "What to the Negro is the fourth of July?" A flag should be stitched with a fuse.