We burrow into horror, digging for some hollow hope beneath certain absurdity of open-ended scope. Words like dirt fall empty, sounding fear of what will be: “It wasn’t what I wanted but it wasn’t up to me.” – Rising voices weighted down by sudden self-awareness (Somewhere, someone whispers some sacred oath of fairness.) After soil … Continue reading 47th US President Poem: November, by Meghan Joyce Tozer