Dead Democrats scratch their bones
and wait but there’s no real time to roll over.

The caskets closed, no reason to push open
wooden tops against dirt, heavy  

with rain water, wet seeps in like a lie, 
another lie, he holds them in the air, 

tries to look the other way. The news
is a chainsaw in back alley America.

A criminal, in his suit, he breathes
through his nose, the patriotic air, dusty.

He takes all—your wallet, your keys, 
your watch, your shirt.

Ladies, he’s taking your bra, your underwear,
he dives for pussy among closed knees.

His orange skin gives the fruit a shiver, 
light and breezy comb-over, I can’t be kind. 

In my mind, hate cannot win
like a baseball game, like prize winning

chili, just spicy enough to need an antacid.
We need a pill for this, for the years, 

for moments we hold our faces in hands
at the dinner table, wet palms, 

hard surface for hardening hearts, for dead
Republicans also trying to roll, wheels 

about to crack. Even wallflowers have come
off the wall to attend, to say, to distinguish

wrong is covering us like old honey,
nothing to eat, still sticky, still stuck in the bear. 

Sarah Lilius | I am the author of four chapbooks including the two most recent, GIRL (dancing girl press. 2017), and Thirsty Bones (Blood Pudding Press, 2017). Some of my publication credits include Drunk Monkeys, the Denver Quarterly, Bluestem, Tinderbox, Stirring, Luna Luna Magazine, Entropy, and Flapperhouse. In 2016, I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I live in Arlington, VA with my husband and two sons. My website is sarahlilius.com.