A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
I’m afraid for my daughter.
I’m afraid for the air
my daughter keeps breathing—or
struggling to breathe. I am
afraid for myself—at
night I can hear them,
the huge missiles hissing. Late
at night I can see him—
the president signing millions of orders,
his hand like a robot’s, the ground
sinking beneath him.
I’m afraid of the gases
bubbling in the cesspools—are we
all falling in? My skipping
daughter cries, Mommy, can’t we
go to the circus? —I weep in my coffee
like a clown.
Copyright 2018 Kathryn Levy