Tuesday

Trump wins the presidency.

My body is in rebellion
I am excreting things:
blood + pus + mucus; ingrown hairs
making their way up and out.
Everything out. I am shedding this hard-won self
in the face of banal and crushing opposition.

This is day zero.

I rinse the dishes,
wipe down the stove with a
stiff blue sponge. Lean on the counter.
We congregate in small circles, looking at each other.
Waiting. Saucer eyes, splotchy necks.

Didi brought cake which we eat
with our hands, feral kids
with fingers in our mouths.
I want to feed it to all of you.
I want to push this love I have for you past
the muscles of your throat and to wrap it around
your insides,
safe in there
where no one can get to it.

We take turns touching one another,
making rounds, and one after another
I notice how small we all are
how finite in my arms.

Trump says:
she called to congratulate me
and we wail. There is no air for our grief.

We hold and are held.
I have never heard you cry before.

How will you answer to us, Mr. President?

You must know that we will survive you.

We are queer and we are legion. We are not going away.
Our slippery magnetic force was forged in flames hotter than you can even imagine.
We have seen worse than you, and flowered.