47th President Poem: A thousand standards, by Nicole Diaz

Why must I always look nice , smooth my hair and match clothes, spend money on new
clothes for the relatives at holidays, when the president is already fried?
Why can’t I have a criminal record for selling fentanyl, when, again, the president has it.
Why shouldn’t I speak of my morbid interests, when the Kennedy homunculus is one
erection away from a necro-zoophile?
Why do I have to be an ‘adult’ when the right hand is a toddler! He’s at the top.
Why can’t I be spoiled rotten? They didn’t work hard.

Why do I have to speak nicely of my exes, when one pushed his ex to suicide?

Why can’t I kill that loud, annoying child? Do I have to wear camouflage and exclaim
“I’m defending myself!”? Oh right, you think my autism is cured. Should I accuse the
child of being an illegal immigrant, would that keep you from arresting me?

Why should I birth a child just so you can rape it later? I might as well kill it when it’s
born. Postpartum psychosis
doesn’t exist in your statistics
made in the money clogged colon.

The fear of pregnancy outweighs
the loneliness—
one that doesn’t even exist,
it’s a propaganda piece
heteronormative must lie
to continue.

Your body my choice,
your baby in the microwave
Your running to your mother
who denies your accountability.
Perhaps I will be better than Cassie Anthony
and mentally saner than the postpartcum psychotics
by keeping my pussy clean.
Plastics,

Your grief? Where is it? Aren’t you mad?
Ah, you’ll see it in the news.
Nothing is concrete until you
hear it from your favorite pipers.
his baby in the trash,
his child starved
beaten raped drugged
The priest may forgive you
But I know God won’t-
He’s not an idiot.