When I Talk to Trump Supporters

It is like setting down a water glass in the dark
missing the ledge
and watching it crash at your feet.
Like anticipating that extra step which does not exist
and hitting the floor.
Like opening Pandora’s box
but instead of pestilence and hatred
it is empty.
You reach in and scoop out
with clutched fingers
and find only riddled-out insides
like abandoned honeycombs or
teeth gorged with cavities.
Lifting the cover on your boiling water
to find it’s all become steam.
What have you fought for,
where is the real you thought you’d clung too,
where are the armies you thought were at your back
to turn the tide,
to patch the wound,
to rouse your spirits when it seemed you might
fade away to smoke on the battlefield.
When what you thought you were protecting was a beating heart
and you thought you knew the red of its flesh
and the folds of thin muscle
and the sound of it,
slow thuds, faint whispers,
but it revealed itself to you as nothing more than
ash, than blackened bones about to crack,
than rusted chains you cannot break,
than something dead which small insects have begun to worm their way inside of.
How can you stand for something when
there are creatures which eat the floor out from under you.
It is preaching to jackals,
it is the renunciation of god,
it’s the collapse of concrete walls
and kneeling in the rubble
and wondering where the worth
in your conviction was.

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