Today I Told Donald Trump
the story of a woman. How the skies
came out of her wherever. Spacious skies.
Dark skies. Grown woman skies. Coalsack at this
time of the month spreads deep. That kind of K
you see in Crux, that’s her. The bloody new
moon, her. Yessir, you’re going to have to swing
a huge dick if you’re going to hit it.
Trump
came out of triumph. Trump (verb): play a trump
on; win a trick.
Tonight, I’m running skies
through my sewing machine, connecting this
evening to morning, hand stitching a K
for force. It isn’t dark enough. My new
windows need blackout shades.
Tonight, the swing
of things. Tonight, okay, if any world
were new. Ever. If swinging skies were spume
preserved in amber. If Trump.
If even this—
at a bar, a man says, Love the hair, says it’s
the best hair, baby. I’m Republican
but would totally go liberal for you;
at a gas station, a man’s Damn girl, those tits
knocks me into the pump and I, too, can
be machine. Shudder. Waiting for use. Tick. Queue.
When I was young, in our basement, where Africa
hung on the wall, my parents danced to Isaac Hayes’s
Hot Buttered Soul. I insisted its real name,
Hot Monkey Love, was better. Lil’ bit racist.
It happens. So I tell myself.
One time, Dad tried
to race a smoke on the side of the house he thought
we couldn’t see, maybe hoping the wind
would wash off the smell of a cop’s night shift, maybe
refill the sockets of his knocked-out teeth.
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From When Rap Spoke Straight To God: A Poem. Courtesy of Tin House Books. Copyright © 2018 Erica Dawson.
