You think you know

by Madeleine French

     what you’ll do when it happens
        (you don’t)
                  and grace won’t bloom through the cracks
either; just forget that
        Each morning I call the roll
                  everyone who should have this
                         instead of me
 like Christo-fascists, so easy to hate
                    all sanctimony and bad hair
             It hasn’t helped—
       focusing on
                   anyone       stupid or selfish
      is a waste of time
                 Turns out, this fight is a waiting game, and
they’ve given me Nerf guns & water pistols:
                     90-day blood tests
                   exercise “for better outcomes”
 supplement capsules, big as the Hindenburg
                       (I fear they’ll combust spontaneously
   in my esophagus)
                I need a bat, to bust out some headlights
leaving glass shards on the asphalt
              like tiny middle fingers in the sun   or a fat brick
  to hurl through a window
                      (no fingerprints)
    Imagine the satisfying crash,
                  the shrill alarm
                           assaulting your eardrums
      then the conflagration
                 a bass roar, stopping your breath
  “Refugee” blaring somewhere                down the block
               that’s the battle I want
          the one             I’d win

Madeleine French lives with her husband in Florida and Virginia, where she shuffles projects among seven sewing machines, and rereads Jane Austen every spring. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Black Fork Review, The Madrigal, Poetica Review, Paddler Press, West Trade Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. You may find her on Twitter, @maddiethinks, or at Post, @maddiewrites.

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