I Put a Spell on Trump
Poetry
If I believed in magic, I’d believe in God,
but I know the woman in the box
just curls her legs
into a chamber beneath her
while someone else wearing her shoes
puts on a show of wiggling toes.
If God created everything,
he gave birth to the devil,
while he miscarried a billion babies this year
into toilets across the land,
and he isn’t doing shit
to protect your immigration status
from an orangutan with a comb over,
no matter how many kewpie dolls
made from orange hair and blood
you set fire to in the urns.
I wrote “Fuck Trump” in caps
across my chest with a black Sharpie,
and cut up pictures of his face
and fed them to birds.
I said the words, “Be bound to your angry chair,”
and threw crow feathers up into discordant spirals.
Trump gave the CEO of DuPont his pen,
and told the media to fuck off
with a smile on his face
like the day the devil was born.
And the Christians kissed their crosses
and said, “Amen.”
