Jayna Marks is teenaged writer in Southern New Mexico. We are thrilled to be the first journal to publish her work.
I built america These hands Passed down for generations Built america These feet Walk the roads my ancestors built These legs Run from what i call life And what some would call hell But i built america The land your forefathers Claimed to be theirs Killed to be theirs Slaughtered to be theirs When their feet didn't feel this soil Until millions And millions of my people Had fertilized this land But i built america I built the white house you call home I built the floor you walk on I built the bed you sleep on I built the place you raise your children I am the reason you live the american dream I am the one who built america I made the shoes you walk in But you could never walk in my shoes I built america But america breaks me every day We built america
As I mourn the death of one of my favorites, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, I’m glad to read a new voice. It’s a law. One poet dies–another is born.
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