Saved

For Donald J. Trump

The world has its own language,
has its own breath, has its
own cookbook. The world knows
how to greet someone in ninety
different languages but it
is a clumsy messenger before
it can become anything else.
Last night, the world said
goodbye in French, but I don’t
remember how to translate any
of what my body heard into
English. So I’ll write bienvenue
and pray you feel like you have
a place at some refugee’s table.
The world is crooked. The world
is in grief. Somewhere, we elected
a president who had a love affair
with the word “nigger” and he wrote
that word in ninety different
languages. How do you translate
bigot into French? The world has
ninety different ways to expel
the nonwhites, but only those
who speaks English will know
exactly what goodbye means.

— Poetry

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