Weekly poem on Trump Presidency





In the version I prefer, the bride never
stands on a pile of fire ants
and Dwight Yoakam, bless his heart
leaves Purple Rain safe distance
from the sins of bluegrass. In the version
I prefer #luckygirl is not how we’re told
we should feel when we hear you moved
on her like a bitch? When all of a sudden
her big phony tits! Even if #luckygirl 
is what we keep tagging last weekend
out on the ranch because we still want
such sky and time to feel auspicious, fluky
even #blessed although I don’t say that
anymore either, seeing as it skids
so fast into sounding like #betterthan
In the version I prefer no woman votes
for a mouth like that, but I’ve been
wrong before: Are ya’ll sisters?
Because ya’ll look
 like sisters? Did I forget
to mention how gassing back up at Valero
the cashier came right on out and asked
if I wanted a #complimentaryMonster energy drink
to go with my full tank. I said #finethanks
but I’m not. #luckygirl really just wanted
to drive and think slow down a crushed
granite road the exact color of stunned blood
on a pale blue sheet washed plenty of times
since they just let you do it? Now I have to
stop the car again, just past the Mason County line
where vultures pick at some dark dead thing
and memory bruises the river to admit
what sometimes still hurts most is how
hard we worked, how we really did
try to stop you.


Jenny Browne most recent collection of poems is Dear Stranger.  She lives in downtown San Antonio, teaches at Trinity University and is the 2017 Poet Laureate of the State of Texas.


illustration:  anna_croc01

illustration: anna_croc01