Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



January 20th, 2018

At ten in the morning,
on a Saturday in a city whose walls are made of brick,
but whose walls also hide away secret racists,
and people who believe a hulking football man named Tom,
may just be God,
and whose land wasn’t enough for the people,
so they shipped in dirt on trains and made more land
for the rats and the wealthy to rot upon,
filling in the harbor
with money and ignorance,

I met Dan the Bagel Man.
A train ride away in the square,
a man whose head was covered in pins like the signs people held in the square,
instructed us to boil water in the caverns under the steeple,
so we did.
We boiled water and poured in Swiss Miss
until our lungs turned brown with powdered hate,
hate that brought the people to the square,
hate that boiled in them from a president who
I cannot picture now,
without a veil of powdered shit and Swiss Miss color staining his orange face.

We gave women the blood of someone’s president–
Not my President!
they shouted--
and Dan and I shoveled fuel disguised as bread into the hearts and stomachs
that were fires ready to burn and blaze the ignorant city to its knees.

These women live among mad men,
who love their God,
even though he conspires with the veiled monster who we let into
the coveted house,
not so long ago, inhabited by men who did release their tax returns.


Zoe Carlson is a senior at Beaver Country Day School where she is co-president of the Women and Gender Issues Club. She will attend Claremont McKenna College next fall. She started writing poetry her junior year, and hopes to continue studying poetry in college.


illustration:  anna_croc01

illustration: anna_croc01