Photography by John Grochalski
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Next Eight Years
I’ll be fifty-five next month.
In eight more years, I’ll be
of legal age to retire, if I hit the Lotto.
I will not allow the antics of Forty-Five
to ruin these next eight years
of work, of art, of major organs
poised for minor failure
Nor will I refer to him
by any of the clever names
the media has concocted:
He will not be named at all in my house,
no flag, no celebration at his ascent,
a name that would be as fire on the tongue,
unworthy of praise, or energy
to demonize at every turn.
In the Bible book, God asks Adam to
name the animals. Even with all His work,
they aren’t complete until Adam labels them.
Even the Earth is unfinished until God
make a light to show off all the working parts.
In my house, Forty-Five’ll never be complete.
In my lucky house, two sound white people,
intelligent, working for now, have the luxury
of leaving Forty-Five in the dark,
his name missing from our personal headlines,
private conversations over regular dinners,
in well heated bedroom, too.
Presidents come and go, all colors.
It is the woman down the block
I’m concerned with today:
Can she read? Where does she sleep?
Will her body be as safe as mine for the next eight years?
How can I help?
--Cheryl A. Rice
Saturday, January 19, 2019
I Drive Shorelines
I drive shorelines
every chance I get
trying to memorize
views of oceans
we, as a species
I drive shorelines
even if those memories
die with me, I want
them at the ready
for when the oceans
come and destroy
us, as a species
Friday, January 18, 2019
Thursday, January 17, 2019
For That You Must Leave Fear Behind
when a sixteen-year-old girl
huddles in a bathroom
after being ripped apart inside
by the unwelcome desire of a boy
she doesn’t think about
who she can tell or
what evidence she should gather
to prove this happened or
any details she might record that could
make a difference in the game of He Said She Said—
she only thinks about
making it home alive
climbing into her bed alive
waking up tomorrow alive
because the simplest of things
are no longer assured her
- Rachel Toalson
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
“What is there to say about former Mayor of New York City Rudy Giuliani that hasn’t been farted into a bag and fed to a demon for punishment?” – Daily Kos
I read Rudy’s latest mental meanderings
in response to pussy-grabber-in-chief’s
senile behavior, tone-deaf remarks.
The phrase “Takes one to know one”
sticks in my mind.
Co-conspiring, seditious white men
discover privilege is not permanent.
As Mueller’s investigation uncovers
layers of perjured malfeasance,
indictments gnaw at their heels.
Giuliani’s dementia escalates,
manifests itself in social media postings
as he incriminates his oblivious client and self.
The ongoing shit show unravels,
pervasive treason revealed.