TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #604
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. Is this the final marriage between America and death? It appears that I may melt with my hope melded to the palms of my hands.
TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #605
The air is hot, and my lungs are soup. Drink from my throat. Some of those bubbles will hold the revolution in them. I do not mind the casting aside of my body. Go!
TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT #606
Organically spun from the beginning, I do not appreciate my life being held up on a toothpick by a man that demands all space in the darkness to be burnt without color. He won’t be able to help himself. He’ll try to eat me in one bite. If he chokes on me, please tell my children every ounce of my truth.
Darren C. Demaree is the author of six poetry collections, most recently “Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly” (2016, 8th House Publishing). His seventh collection “Two Towns Over” was recently selected the winner of the Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and is due out March 2018. He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.
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.