The Spirit of America lies deep within my gaping masshole like a clam in low tide sand. It’s north of Boston, doused in dunkies
regular and James River BBQ sauce, cascading down cobblestones, collecting Necco Wafer dust and KENO slips on its
pilgrimage to the harbor, where there, it will be stamped with smog and spilled into the Atlantic. I let it
steep before it comes in me.

Fish to find it flooded: stagnant, sweet, mosquitoed, molasses.

“Spirit of America” by Madison Murray, My Gaping Masshole (2025)