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              They asked, Do you know what it means to be American?

I told them, Yes, and talked principles, rights,
the Constitution, and didn't say I'd stepped through

the ruins of Rüsselsheim, been startled in my uniform
by the click click of GI's taking pictures of their American
wives posing in the rubble, cocked smiles, high heels shining,
breasts jutting out against a fire-bombed wall.
And on the train to Frankfurt I held a lavender
handkerchief under my nose. The cars were crowded,
and no one seemed surprised that coats don't cover
grief so immense it stinks.



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