Ellen McGrath Smith: 9 1/2 Months

This is not a film I wish to be in

but there’s nowhere else to go;

so I sit on the deck, let fall

slow-bruise my heart,

pretend this French blue sky

will never go en grève

and that great strife is not ahead.

Nice lady waiting for her

money to make money

rings her little silver spoon

against the bone china rim—

signaling her wish for me

to shut up about these things,

followed by a lecture

on giving him a chance &

on visualization and manifesting

that trips on its satiny

shoelaces and ends up

slapping my soul

as though it were a cheek

(face or ass depending on

the fire in my speech).

Suburban white voter, go ahead:

blindfold me, spin me to dizzy,

walk me around the subdivision

letting the menopausal

chrysanthemums

pepper my nostrils

with their misgivings.

Sit me down in a booth

in the TGI Fridays, read me

my rights. Force-feed me

the burger and fries

and the indigestible cloth

of the flag. Let’s call it

9 1/2 Months, where

all will be forgiven

if the president resigns

and the lights come back on.

Copyright 2017 Ellen McGrath Smith