POLITICAL Poem: “Patrolwomen”, by Leah Gross

Pity the people who pity the party,
who pick on the poor,
who take a poke and a prod at the penniless.

Peoples, plentiful as you—
the man beside you,
and the man you think you see above.

The prince pours pints of purple piss on the paupers;
presidentially, he pours onto—

Wondrous women went wandering with the willows—
wildly witted woman, walk wayward
to wilt and wine with the wizened.
We won’t wish to wash away our wonderland,
So, walk right by, on the world you wired to fire.
Witches wise and rising, going westward,

watering the woodland for the we and the wee on the way.
Wear out your wailing whimsy and collect the waif,
for I cannot wind our withering alone- watch.

You’ll find the trolls triggered,
tripped on and over the tomb.
Then the truth will trudge forth,
for this is leading them to that.
The tasteless and torturous take to tame a man who mends and bends his amends.

The men who won’t pay mind to my merit.
Merely mortal are we,
and might man be morally evil? Eyes rise—

Everyone is exempt from eternal exile
in the eyes of a non-earthly individual—
an equal opportunist
who eats and feasts with the sky lords.

Let us not lose sight of the lucky.
Lucky is the lad lying
in the lair of lunar lights,
looking on the lowly, lumbering laborers,
letting out a lion-like laugh.

Ah, the abundance of apathy
athwart the Americas.
Apart, the awry ones—
a part of the apprehended.
Almost all are unaware,
apart from the astrals.

Oh, the oppressed ones—
onward to the oracles!
The obtuse and obedient—
let us put out their obituary,
and only the objectors
will be outed to oblivion.

Rare riders of the righteous horse
through the rubble,
to the ruins of the roaring rain.

Rash are those reaping rewards,
who are rightfully rabid.
Radical is it to remind the restless
of the once right-minded,
roaring roof-toppers.

Eager ears, ebullient
for equality’s epithalamium,
each awaiting the earthlight,
an exhale and its epiphany.

An earnest expressionist,
our effervescent educators—
rest easy, to the visionaries and the envisioned,
eliminated by economic enthusiasts.

Now know nativity, nurtured by a cycled nursling,
neglected by the nightlight.
Hush now, nascent one—
come November, he will need
the stark and naked avengers
to kneel against the Nile.

Even the knights engorge on the nation’s neglected,
Their noses nestled as their knees go necrotic.

A Ney will trill as once before,
when they said long ago—
and again—
nevermore.
For it is the nearness of the ending
and the knowing of the null.