Night Sky with Donald Trump
If I put him beneath a sky full
of stars, stood him without
phone or tablet, landline
or screen, broke his connection
with the vast Twitterverse to
which he clings, claiming it as
essential truth, perhaps his only
way to verify that he is real,
could he stand this alone
in any kind of awe?
Under this spilled bucket
of starlight shining through
the hours, could he
find his own small stature, his
single beating heart? Could even
the stars tell him, in a language
his ears could comprehend,
that we must all be in this
together, our very insignificance
demands it? Could I place
a tender hand on his rich,
suited shoulder, let the dark
wash our politics downstream
and remind him that to codify
and slice away those we fear
because we don’t recognize
or understand them is to weaken
us all. The stars can sing just that song
when I stand in the cold and listen.
One Night Ghost
Under a chipped summer moon
I haunt the front yard of the house
we once called home. From the outside
through the warp of glass, I see you
with her, dancing past the picture
window. You could be us, gliding
past the coffee table, your hips
swaying like flowers, naked skin
offered without thought or bruising.
Such petal-soft touching once lived
with us—the back porch swing where we
rocked while its old bones creaked, cracks
in the linoleum that tripped
us between stove and sink, the grill
where you flipped burgers, cooked corn, burned
the letters you had once written
me. Back in the car I breathe, wait
for my ghost to quit its stalking.
Beth Konkoski is a writer and high school English teacher living in Northern Virginia with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in journals such as: The Potomac Review, Saranac Review, and Gargoyle. Her chapbook “Noticing the Splash” was published in 2010 by BoneWorld Press and a second chapbook, “Water Shedding,” is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
Image by nanamori, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=54642056