I Recognized This Country as My Country

the gods watched over. And it was briefly true.
The gods. Their attention.
When I was little, we lived on heirs’ land,
though my mother and I would not be read as heirs.
My neighbor hung new bags of candy
on my fence post every week. I’d just turned
three or four. No one remembers, least of all me,
whether the candies were good or bad.
Chocolates or generic. But the neighbor
loved a title bestowed upon him—he marched
frequently as the grand dragon of the local klan,
spent his savings on a billboard of bleeding Christ,
which read repent—he must have hated me
or loved me, the only child for miles,
the youngest Mouzon and not even white.