Sit on the president’s shoes under their desk
in the Oval Office. The vibration of
their blood pushing into me, their decisions for drone attacks and negotiations
costing untold human lives coursing through my body as I write notes for a
poem. I will worry I am too heavy for
their feet, but remind myself that they are the president and will not have a
problem letting me know if their feet fall asleep.
Peel an orange and offer the first section to the president. If they accept I must write notes while holding an exaggerated smile in the muscles of my face. If they decline the fruit I will hold a frown in the muscles of my face. A poet offering fruit to a president. What does the orange feed both physically and spiritually? How are we tied to policies of war and consumption by a president? Take notes for the poem, waiting for them to leave the room, allowing me to find a bed or bathtub to curl inside for a nap. When I wake I write more notes.
Peel an orange and offer the first section to the president. If they accept I must write notes while holding an exaggerated smile in the muscles of my face. If they decline the fruit I will hold a frown in the muscles of my face. A poet offering fruit to a president. What does the orange feed both physically and spiritually? How are we tied to policies of war and consumption by a president? Take notes for the poem, waiting for them to leave the room, allowing me to find a bed or bathtub to curl inside for a nap. When I wake I write more notes.
