Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
From Bad Naughty
Bad naughty headlines, you’re not naughty, you’re just bad. And not bad like little-naughty, you’re just devastating-bad. God the daily news it gets so sad I cannot read it and the country’s broke in pieces I’ll just set it down and leave it. Bad news again, this one is hard to say out loud: it’s the gunmen of the week firing bullets into crowds. Bad gruesome Wednesday now when I hear refugee I see a soft-haired little smiling boy left lifeless by the sea. There’s nothing more to do when a toddler can’t grow older. I guess I’ll think about it while I hold my sleeping daughter. Bad news again, at least the sun is nearly down, and my makeup is so wet it turns my pillows into shrouds.
Bad naughty poison, you’re not strong enough for me. I’m a feisty little fighter with more naughtiness to see. Bad naughty world, you want eyes closed—I’ll just look harder—there is too much goodness left to let it follow our departure. Bad naughty martyr says she won’t let you do harm, watch her break her heart wide open to keep other people warm. Bad naughty nation cornered like a wounded creature, coax it out to feed it but let kindness be the suture. Bad naughty future heavy from a dream awoke, just let this sadness last a week then breathe it out like smoke.
Rebecca Wadlinger is a poet and the translator of Norwegian writer Gro Dahle’s collection A Hundred Thousand Hours (Ugly Duckling Presse).