TRUMP AS A FIRE WITHOUT LIGHT
The stars have opened their mouths to be indelicate against the black, to chant with the wagging tongue of the absence of heaven, the same phrase in every language. There is no sleep in the cosmos. There is no retreat in the cosmos. When they chant “traitor” enough to change our weather patterns, then they have a message we should listen to.
It’s not cold enough to be winter. I can see everything he’s doing. Still, this is a blizzard, and we are all in danger. I am driving my car on clean streets as if at any moment I could drive into the living room of a neighbor. I am listening to the storm. I am not listening for direction. I am singing in the wind. I am not safe. That part doesn’t matter so much, but the muscles in my body think it is.
He cannot hover. His weight doesn’t allow that. There are fifty men and two women each holding a rope that allows him to be suspended above me while I sleep. One of those men has just wrapped that rope around his neck. There are forty-nine men and two women holding a rope that keeps him inches from my face. Two or three more appear to be admiring the corpse beside them. This all ends with his body on top of mine. I am practicing holding my breath. I am learning how to expand my chest enough that when he makes his impact he will roll off of me and into the valley of that which I cannot think of anymore.
Darren C. Demaree is the author of seven poetry collections, most recently “A Fire Without Light” (2017, Nixes Mate Books). His eighth 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.