for Sorcha Hyland
While you’re in the kitchen with Osiris,
Melissa—long black-haired, and slightly in earnest
—crosses the street with Eve, her two year old,
to ask the lend of a bike to go and vote
here, the only blue county in Kansas.
Eve explores red leaves under the porch swing,
listens to Indian Summer crickets
as I ask Jeremy about the flag’s absence.
He carries it up from the basement, tied
on a wooden pole tipped by a bronze eagle.
And, as he hoists it, he says, ‘Old Glory’
—that Kansan touch in his inflection:
the way, here, they still say ‘Missoura’—
and watches as it begins to flap in a new wind.