All my people are blue, resting below the Atlantic’s mint foam, or on her coast. Our Gods, too, were swallowed by the sky. In fallow graves, they lie. My heritage is heavy on my shoulders, a name too thick for my tongue to carry. So, let me carry your God. Make Him mine too. Let me borrow your clasped hands, your chafed knees. Here’s ten dollars for an apple seed. Let’s build new gardens, ripe and sweet.