Reality
by Molly Campbell
The fall of 2016 in America
was a reality TV show.
My own mother voted for Trump.
I filled my wine glass
and did dishes
when politics came up at dinner.
I hate politics even more than dishes.
I don’t know how to say
what I want to say
about how hard my heart hurt
as it crawled up my throat
when my kids wrote letters to the
next president
and said all the things
they think they know
and sometimes
the things they felt.
When the Puerto Rican boy is called
a “dirty Mexican”
or the blonde-haired, blue eyed
rich boy
can’t find his words
to answer the quiet girl’s question
to defend his statement that
rape victims
should have to carry the baby
because it will be
“a pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow”--
I hope it looks like its mom
and doesn’t act like its dad--
my heart grows claws
and sticks them into my larynx
preventing speech
but I don’t have
a bottle of wine
or a sink full of dishes
to wash it down.
I have to swallow it
and say
“thank you--
you might consider including
a counter-claim--
where is your conclusion?--
good use of evidence--
thank you for including your personal story--
remember kids,
always,
in everything,
be kind.”
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