Christine Rhein: Before the Election

The window was open just enough

to let in the cool night air. September—

like always—the two of us talking,

in bed, about the garden, a late flood

of tomatoes, sweetness amid the weeds.

When we heard the noise—hammering

coming from somewhere in the dark,

we got up to see—lifting the pane

a little higher—our neighbor staking

a banner to his yard. He pounded

on and on, beneath a sickle moon,

the rustle of leaves, and we shivered,

as if we knew what would follow,

how the slogan would still be standing

in winter snow, and well beyond.

Copyright 2018 Christine Rhein. This poem was first published in The First Line.