Shaking Trump

I’m none-to-happy when Trump appears in my dream
the days have been long enough.
Help he says, like he means it,
like he actually wants help.
I’m astonished, but in the dream I know what to do.
I start shaking him, but not in the daytime way I want to, 
not that hard.

Instead, I take him by the shoulders 
and shake him slowly
like I’m rocking a baby.
I shake until his hair falls softly over his face.
shake him until his brow unfurls
shake him until his lips unpurse
I shake until I see a darkness dislodge
from behind his left shoulder blade;
shake until this heart which has been stuck 
for so long, settles like a pinball
back into place.
I listen to this small heart rattle in its cavity.
I shake Trump until I wake.

Awake, I know my work isn’t done,
I’m not ready to let him go
so I take him with me to the Zendo
and shake him all morning on the mat
instead of following my breath
instead of returning to presence
I shake Trump.

With the help of the mat,
I’m steady and slow — 
this will take some time I think as I shake.
I shake sleep from his eyes
shake the bend from his spine
shake his ego until it sloughs off
shake him slack-jawed and open-mouthed
until words fall out like gum balls
I shake him until the word pussy
falls to the floor
and rolls harmlessly
I shake until furniture and tic tac and phenomenal fall out
and roll like marbles on linoleum.

I want to shake him human 
or even better, back to animal
shake until there’s no longer a proper noun
shake him untrumped and empty.
I want to shake and shake and shake— 
I want to shake our rattling hearts 
until they break.