I felt trapped.

Even next to my

lovely wife,

we both felt

alone,

stuck

in our own heads.

I crawled out of bed,

cold, bundled, and bruised,

drained of cheer.

I walked the streets,

the day after,

observing their faces.

A parent nervously pushing

a stroller,

the queer couple talking

rapidly,

a shopper in a sweatshirt

with an empty gaze.

It's post election

and we are shocked, stricken,

and playing dead in pure daylight.

Our thoughts are

for Kamala

as she called

a rapist

to say,

"You won."

We watched

at a distance,

floating in horror

as the male body

once again claimed

space

and authority.

When will the hunt end?

We are the prey

with lion jaws

wrapped around

our necks.

We might

yet live beyond

these teeth

if only we vacate

the first home of our bodies.

If only we leave.

Too much you say?

Too triggering?

Unfair?

Yes, Yes, Yes.

I can no longer sit

in the shadows

with ruinous words

tangling in my mouth,

tip-toeing

because your internal garden

of privilege

is delicate to harsh weather.

I can no longer wait

to be devoured

by predators

whose greatest flaw

is a lack of self-love.

How to continue?

How to keep facing

the hordes of hate?

With spindly exhausted legs,

with raised faces,

with crawling.

We will push through

broken teeth

and

weep over

colonized lands.

We will feel unnamed

fears,

we will release brittle

hate,

and we will step over

violence

like it is poison ivy.

We will pound through

songs of sharp grief,

a herd of protective singing

people; our name,

the lion's bane.

And one day,

with out best heart,

and a clear path,

we will cage these predators,

and wait for their humanity to return.