POLITICAL Poem: Before the Election, by Emma Paris

I hope you lay down your yoke of pride, and of shame.
I’m praying that you think of your own family and of
every other family sitting in front of history. I hope you
walk to the polls in your blue shoes, tapping out a song
that calls to your neighbors and children and service
workers and teachers. I hope you take hands with all the
mail deliverers and clerks and secretaries and I hope you
drag your bank and your hospital with you down the polls.
I hope you think of little kids out there, translating for their
parents as the results roll across us in waves. I hope you think
of the crickets in your yard. And every single bird you’ve
heard sing. As well as the scummy dogs on the streets and
spiders spinning webs in unknown corners. I hope you breathe
like a tiger, blow out a fire with your tongue. Twist some
fingers around the pen and draw a future that has room for
another after it. I hope you forgive yourself. I hope you change
your mind. I hope you think of your children or best friend’s
kids, or the kids you see on the bus every day to work. I hope
you think of cities full of women and fear. I hope you think
of the moon. I hope you feel grateful, and astonished, and I
hope you lay down your yoke and your blinds too. I hope you
read the news, and I hope you imagine yourself in other colored
shoes. I hope you feel moved. I hope you watch with tears and
tell everyone you know. I hope this doesn’t break you. I hope
you think of the boys who play basketball on your street, or the
cats that howl like pup coyotes in the city darkness. And I hope
you think of jellyfish squirming in cloudy water, and baby elephants
speaking like gods. I hope you care. Above all, I hope you care. I
hope you did your research and I hope you’re thinking about the
future every day. I hope the whispers coming off the lips of angry
women haunt you. I hope you think of the wolves of isle royale. I
hope you think of the men stuck on the moon. I hope you think of
the cost of frozen peas. And I hope you think of the artists. I hope
you love flowers. And I hope you love them enough to keep them
blooming. I hope you bring your heart with you when you vote. I
hope you write your name in the dank soil and your mama’s blood.
I hope you lay down your yoke of fear and guilt. I hope your
ancestors watch you as the paper is counted. I hope you think
of little girls with eating disorders, and tall ambitions. I hope you
think of little girls with coily hair, and tall ambitions. I hope you
think of little girls drinking their medications with tall ambitions.
I hope you think of little girls waking up cold with tall ambitions.
I hope you think of little girls with babies on hips and tall
ambitions. I hope you think of little girls who are actually tall
mountains, anchoring a family without dock to rest in. I hope
you think of mountains. I hope you circle the well and toss in
pennies. I hope you lick off your selfishness and throw off the
reins. I hope you lay down your yoke. And instead welcome
the runny yellow yolk and let it spell out survival. And I hope
you think of sick kids, and hopeless kids, and underprivileged
kids, and orphaned kids, and those kids in Palestine buried under
war. I hope you think of eagles. Real eagles. Swooping to catch
prey and feed the young. Real eagles that nest within your industry.
Shot down by capitalism. I hope you think of poor moms, working
fathers, single parents, the mentally ill, and I hope you think of
the plague. Which one? I don’t know. I hope you think of your
hatred of violence and I hope your eyes are unclouded. I hope
you sink into the river and return with honest passion. I hope you
think of your mom. I hope you think of snow. Of cottontails. Of
stars. Of Audre Lorde. Of the academics. Of justice. I hope you
think of your communities. I hope you think of the ocean. Of
metapopulations and meteors and metros and metaphors and
the absolute metaphysical. I hope you think of schools, of
white pines and yews. You should think of a mother’s grief, of
kids with weapons in hand. Handed guns like candy, handed
bombs like goodnight kisses. I hope you think of kindness, of
women who rub each other’s backs as they break down watching
the blue screen turn red. Of parents who don’t tell their children
until morning. I hope you cross all your t’s like women crossing
state borders to save themselves, and dot the i’s like blotting up
tears from the page, and spell it out big across corporations and
industries that use the body like a gear, puppet, expendable
resource. Spell it out big and clear, and slip it in the ballot box.
I hope you know your existence is a political movement. I hope
you know that’s not enough. I hope you dream of meadows and
lace and anger and beauty and ghosts and lovers and insects
and daughters—I hope you think before the election. I hope
you feel.

Author: poetryfest

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