You can tell me Trump colluded with the Russians
and nine times out of ten, I’ll picture Mikhail
Baryshnikov in black milliskin tights and tight
white shirt, strutting into secret meetings
with his brisés volés and grands jetés.
You can tell me to be serious—
that Putin is a dangerous man, and I’ll imagine
Ivan Drago beating Rocky Balboa’s face to a pulp.
The truth is what we make of it.
My therapist says I should delete my Twitter.
It’s a trigger, each tweet a reminder
of the ways bullies twist words into weapons.
Again, Trump lies and I catastrophize:
Bridges fall into oceans, I’m flooded
with apocalyptic emotions, carried
where conversations earn glittered belts—
bruises, welts—these heavyweight bouts,
his teasing mouth. The tongue’s a trickster.
I swallow balls of cotton until I’m stuffed
like the doll boxed in the closet, her thin lips
an X sewn in red stitches, wedded to silence.
Marissa Glover teaches writing at Saint Leo University, hosts Friday Night Open Mic, and was recently named an editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa shares her thoughts more than necessary, which she considers a form of charitable giving. If it counted as a tax deduction, she’d be rich. Her work has appeared inGyroscope Review, Stoneboat Literary Journal, and After the Pause, among others. Follow her on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.