The yard wraps around,
sod piece by piece,
until it’s all squares and corners,
like the neighborhood.
The Mexicans are up top
on the roof.
I can hear hammers,
their blows muttering in tongues.
Shingles pour down like wallets,
the turbines ripped up,
laid out by the trash.
You can see the dents
from the hail.
On the roof, there’s a pole,
our flag hyperventilating;
blues and reds throwing up on the white sky.
I can see it through the front door window,
through the crack in the foyer door.
It keeps coming.
Even to the backyard you can feel it wrapping.
In the carport where the workers are,
heating up tamales in a microwave they brought.
At night, it’s quiet.
The Mexicans are asleep
in my American prayers.
I fold my knees over
on the square carpet.
At the window there’s a dark presence.
I look up afraid.
It’s our country’s flag.
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