Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



When Brett Kavanaugh Drives By A Field Of Dead Sunflowers

he pulls over to take a picture. He plans to hang the picture
above his wooden gavel in the new corner office. He imagines it will symbolize
withstanding the hot arrow of Artemis and
his rows of girls in basketball shorts and
the victory of his amnesic thereby innocent therefore persecuted penis. 

He treads through the field until he finds the right bunch, lifts his lens, focuses hard.
The only things he can see are dead sunflowers. 

They’re just not doing it for him.

He laughs at their sad eyes and tells them to bend a little, look over here, twist there if you
wish to be more aesthetically pleasing. They do not move. He can’t get the angle he wants, so
he gives up. He uses the base of their cracked stems to scrape the mud off his boots before
he punches the gas and squeals away. 

Dust to dust, the earth holds the truth in its cells.
The abandoned field exhales a held breath. Her dry petals
shiver in the wind made by the cars that do not stop. 

This is a story about a moment –
the moment a man tries to erase –
tries to erase his own misogyny
using an entire nation’s misogyny.  

When Brett sprays his angry spit onto the picture of Christine’s blood, he wipes his
finger across the picture of Christine’s blood until the picture of Christine’s blood becomes
a picture of Brett’s fingerprint. 

What more do you want from the good guys? chin quiver. We open doors for you! fist clench.
We give you children! lip snarl.
We go to church and stand by you and place our important hand on the small of your back so
you can feel chosen and kept and precious!
We let you                   let you                         let you                         do so much!

It took Dr. Katie Bouman's algorithm and eight internationally linked telescopes to capture
a single frame of a woman’s legitimate rage. Scientists say the gravitational pull of
a hole like that is so strong, not even light can escape it. 

Brett’s camera demands to know what we are doing with our bodies and what our bodies will be
doing for him. It never asks to take our picture. Never asks to see our faces or learn our names.
God knows it never asks about the mud on his boots.


Cyndie Randall holds a BA in Creative Writing/Poetry and an MA in Counseling. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in Okay DonkeyKissing DynamiteGhost City ReviewYes PoetryBarren MagazineBoston Accent LitThe Manifest-Station, and elsewhere. Cyndie works as a therapist and lives between the Great Lakes. Find her on Twitter @CyndieRandall or at cyndierandall.com.