Last weekend we gathered in worldwide protest, and that was wonderful and cathartic. But now what? I share my complaints with my senator, Republican Susan Collins, and receive a canned response. I sign White House petitions, but our signatures seem to mysteriously vanish. I stand here, angry and committed, but also aware that I am invisible. And as much as I clamor, I know that anyone who wants to avoid me can just close the curtains.
Yet this man, whom I cannot call my president, who is nobody's president, who is a puppet and a maniac, is now Tweeting about sending federal troops into Chicago, the city where my own much-loved son works and walks. I cannot close my curtains against Trump, as much as I despise the sight of him.
I don't know what we can do. I don't know what I can do. I talk and talk. I sign and protest. I make myself a gadfly. And his response? Even as he closes his curtains, he will do all he can to destroy what I value most: Air. Water. Kindness. Tolerance. Altruism. Lives.
You, who read this letter, most likely share some or all of my panic. Right now I feel that our legal allies are our best hope. Journalists have been crippled; scientists ignored. But the law remains . . . for the moment.
And a poet can still write a poem. So I did. Share it, if you think that can help.
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clammy with rot
like a dead goat in summer
a stink so foul the river
curls up in her bed and groans
the earth splits like a bad melon
as you crow It’s Fine! It’s All Fine! So Good! The Best!
it’s you that every god hates