Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



Silencer with Blues & Birds on a Wire

             My mind is playing tricks on me.
                                             —Geto Boys


             Will you miss the lone, stiff mister blue bird

ghosting it through a two-light town, in which

             you raise your chicks or cocks in Gothic dens

adorned in old doilies, rooster trinkets,

             a sweet aphorism, cross-stitched & hung

above the door? Or maybe you’re me-like,

             treading light, an Ave., where birds are called black-

blue—few, but enough for you to notice

             each absence. This deafening black swan song

I hear in wind, wrestling dark pansies

             against headstones—Dixie fifes. It shivers

my spine in sirens nigh, as wince, whiplash

             automatic—yes, bathed in swish of red

& white light, streetlamps crook like Georgia pines.

Marcus Wicker is the author of Maybe the Saddest Thing, a National Poetry Series winner and NAACP Image Award finalist.  This poem first appeared in Kenyon Review. His second book, Silencer, will be published in September 2017 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.