AMERICAN ELECTION
Outcomes: A Journal
Prose poetry on the side effects of hope
How can I make sure that, in the maelstrom of my emotions, I stay committed to courage, kindness, and caring for [my community], regardless of the choices made by others? Doing the smallest next right thing is hard AF, but sometimes it’s all we’ve got. — Brené Brown, 11/8/24
I bathe in Venus’s pink lemonade, and she gives me a rose quartz.
Dreaming, I buy the busker’s tape and sign up for the newsletter in exchange for trumpet lessons —
I’m told I’ve been breathing wrong the whole time.
They ask for a J-stroke, a watery curl to propel the sound forward.
Awake, it’s two-seventeen — pundits repeat — biting years from my life.
Awake, it’s four-twelve — my head pounds — headlights — neighbors returning from third shifts.
My immune system’s message: we’re done.
I want to wrap my arms around whoever needs it. I want my son’s life to be fulfilling and one of purpose. I want the world to awaken before my time is over. I want our daughters to be safe.
I receive invitations to create, become friends, weep, hang out in the yard, and get high on whatever will hold us.
