Dead Democrats scratch their bones
and wait but there’s no real time to roll over.
The caskets closed, no reason to push open
wooden tops against dirt, heavy
with rain water, wet seeps in like a lie,
another lie, he holds them in the air,
tries to look the other way. The news
is a chainsaw in back alley America.
A criminal, in his suit, he breathes
through his nose, the patriotic air, dusty.
He takes all—your wallet, your keys,
your watch, your shirt.
Ladies, he’s taking your bra, your underwear,
he dives for pussy among closed knees.
His orange skin gives the fruit a shiver,
light and breezy comb-over, I can’t be kind.
In my mind, hate cannot win
like a baseball game, like prize winning
chili, just spicy enough to need an antacid.
We need a pill for this, for the years,
for moments we hold our faces in hands
at the dinner table, wet palms,
hard surface for hardening hearts, for dead
Republicans also trying to roll, wheels
about to crack. Even wallflowers have come
off the wall to attend, to say, to distinguish
wrong is covering us like old honey,
nothing to eat, still sticky, still stuck in the bear.
Sarah Lilius | I am the author of four chapbooks including the two most recent, GIRL (dancing girl press. 2017), and Thirsty Bones (Blood Pudding Press, 2017). Some of my publication credits include Drunk Monkeys, the Denver Quarterly, Bluestem, Tinderbox, Stirring, Luna Luna Magazine, Entropy, and Flapperhouse. In 2016, I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I live in Arlington, VA with my husband and two sons. My website is sarahlilius.com.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.