47th President Poem: Inauguration, by M.A. Jay

What if I bury the bones
Of migrant mothers
To grant them permission
to stay and rattle the earth
Echoing their existence
Like our ancestors?

What if I make a bloody show
For birthing mothers
To remind them that our labor
Gives us the right to raise our litter
And lick our wounds
Like strong, wild wolves.
We have everything we need
Within us.

What if I pour poetry
Like a warm stream of piss
Melting the snow
Marking my place
Like the proud bitch that I am?

What if , instead of spit, I vomit
Green grassy bile in the bowel
Of your polished black shoe?

A dog always returns to its vomit.
America circles, retelling the tale.
“It’s not a reinvention, it’s a remix.”