the sting

Writing seems to take away some of the sting for me. There are other things I should be doing, for sure, but this is the only thing that helps me feel slightly human right now.

Some of this poem is written out of a moment of footage I saw days ago where GW went into Biloxi and was comforting a woman and her daughter. I was amazed by his compassion, a side of him I haven't ever seen. I hate the man, but still haven't been able to reckon with this moment. Was it all a charade? so many cameras around?

the sting

I knew you would be here, caching figments
in the back room, devastating small children
with a lemon rind in your smile. It passes the
time. Flawed, an inkblue sky behind water, highway
like a reed weaves in and out. In your own
time. Citrus fermenting, floating among residents
and swimmers. Open sores.Heat pulls back
as if you commanded it. She cries is all
you know. She’s been swimming for days. She shows you
her fingertips, bleached white, shriveled and dry.