This poem was written in the closing hours of the 2016 President Election.
Americans, shifting in size and stature,
Hover like moths around the flickering
Television sets, take short breaths,
As numbers trickle in like rain.
Bodies, curled into question marks
In living rooms and bars, stare with
Empty eyes, waiting for the call,
The punchline, the kill shot.
And then, it happens. Blood-stained
States, red with indecision, grow in number,
Each one, feels like a bruise on our nations skin,
and "the people have spoken."
When he is announced as President,
Millions of flames inside the souls
Of women, LGBT community members,
Latinos, Muslims, and immigrants flicker
And waver, snuffed out by a nation.
When he wins, riots take to the streets.
I’m sorry, not riots, because when white
Men bombard through cities and towns
We call that a parade.
When Trump wins, it is the first time
That flowing white sheets means victory
Over surrender. It is a battling cry of the
Barbaric, the hymn of the hopeless.
In homes around the country, funerals
Are held for entire families, entire peoples.
Parents go to sleep that night, counting their
Children’s shadows like sheep.
Students lay awake in cheap apartments,
That “I voted” sticker feels more like a
Nicotine patch, so foreign, so needy,
So unrealistic and unfathomable.
This is not a nightmare. Or a punchline.
This is not some mistake, or bad prank.
We are not all dead. This is our country.
This is who we are now. This is us.
These days that follow feel more like
Bootcamp for war. Eyes laced in dark
Skin shift, never blink, not knowing
Which hate crime they will help legalize.
Americans stand defeated, and broken.
Their eyes reflect the fires of a nation,
Whose final embers and smoking ash
spell out “Make America Great Again!”
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