Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
(Brooklyn to Manhattan)
The construction worker steps aside on the sidewalk.
(Eastern European?) Excuse me, lady. Good morning, lady!
Last night in the subway, a loon, unhinged, unmedicated:
Look at you, man, fuck you, you’re ugly. Aw, man, I’m sorry. Fuck you.
Today, in the face across from me, an aspect of the dead writer.
As he reads his book, I gape at the bend of his eyebrows.
The MTA tape loops: Hello! It’s dangerous to hold the doors open.
Hello! It’s dangerous to hold the doors open. Hello! It’s dangerous—
If you’ve retained any degree of hope, you must be hallucinating.
The apples in the garden are not apples but visions of apples.
Joanna Solfrian lives and works in New York City. Her poems have appeared in journals such as The Harvard Review,Margie, The Southern Review, Pleiades, The Boston Review, Image, and Salamander. Her first poetry collection, Visible Heavens, was chosen by Naomi Shihab Nye for a Wick First Book Prize. Her second collection, The Mud Room, is due from MadHat Press in 2019. www.joannasolfrian.com