I WANTED TO FUCK Donald Trump.
prep school pirate, Gold Rush heir,
real estate roulette spinner,
reality show kingpin, beauty pageant barker,
pussy-grabbing race-baiter, gay-baiter,
snake-tongued speech maker,
cocksure combover crusader.
Who doesn’t want to fuck a diamond-crusted devil?
A gilded winner? A steel-girded tower of power?
Sure, I wanted to fuck Donald Trump.
So I did.
His eyes were shifty holes on a face,
dark narrow slits that shut out light.
His hands were slimy wedges of flesh,
little levers too small to grip,
too slippery to hold, too vulgar to pull.
His crown of hair, his coat of skin,
his jeweled balls all nuclear orange,
glowed with irradiating falsehood,
glowed with the heavy breath of an old fire
too furious to blow out drown out or stamp out.
When I woke, my mouth tasted of bitter ash
and sour wine. My Confederate uncle said,
“Trump’s been elected President.”
I rolled down my panties, untucked my cock.
One pull on the cold trigger, and I knew:
that was my uncle’s wet dream, not mine.