I drive a hummer in America
because it is mighty.
A mighty woman in
a mountainous car.
Nobody can faze me or tousle
my spirit in that impossible thing.
Dreams are primitive pests,
laughable and like stick figure
insects. I swat them away
while reciting the names of African countries.
I imagine speeding over land lumps
with my very best friend,
the two of us laughing about
childish things. I am a child
in America. Later, the phone rings,
it is a telemarketer, the kitchen
is a mess, she has a solution to something.
There are marks up and down my body,
welts like little dead kisses.
Friends think I am sad,
but they don’t know about my plans.
They have never lived in my house,
with that husband, or that friend,
or felt that breeze,
the one that keeps me awake.
May 18, 2017
Meg Pokrass: “This poem is about the nightmarish world of Trump America.” (website)