Following the election, I found myself nestling most of my ire and emotions into my chest. I didn’t write much about it, particularly in poetry, mostly because I didn’t want to be met with the harsh revelation of the country’s given state. Now, a few months later, I found myself combing through what was truly needing to claw out of me. And it has taught me to not restrain myself or my words.
wooden planks
there is a dull finish to
to the curt tendency of our phrases
voices flat, gazes blank
we dig our feet into deep depressions
the soil rich and padded by those whose
brown skin glistened beneath august heat
we no longer cup golden mornings in our palms
and fold them into the crinkles of our grins
plunging our fists into the air like we’re lady liberty
no, our lips are no longer swollen in chortles
tongues melted in cathartic retellings
of gondolas and salt
we are trudging along a trail of mud-caked fears
along sanctions disguised as a sullen man
sporting a crisp navy blue suit
his wiry face resembles that of one who
peels freedom from people’s flesh
like tangerines, citrus-scented and all
the television shudders with the word ‘President’
but it is something foreign in my mouth
like a cement slab lodged in the esophagus
like wax melting and congealing
into the tissue of bone marrow
mind sluggish, words slurred
six a.m. is followed by churning stomachs
by hurried “i love you’s” and prayers that
our autonomy will remain intact
we don’t turn on the television anymore
recoil at the word ‘President’
like venomous poison seeping into our lungs
we light a candle amid his declarations of privilege
declarations that scald the skin akin to my own
the candle burns out
