The man with the hair poached my dreams last night. These dreams charged with patriotic jargon clung to the pockets of white men I’ve never met. There wasn’t popcorn or victory horns, just tears coming from the bedroom of my child who wanted her president to be a girl. No, no. she said. No, no I said. No, no we said. As the sun snuck into our room, no, no. I stepped on the fresh remains of a moth the cat brought in, its shell, yesterday's yes wings. Yesterday I was at ease with dark morning streets while running with headphones. Yesterday a lone man walking by may not have felt like a threat to my body. Yesterday I would drive without tears blinding my view. Yesterday isn’t today. But I push against nothing. Here we are on the brink of revolution. How many of us will fall asleep again? How many others will exchange today's trauma for a deeper connection to the web we are all stuck to. My hope isn’t a firearm or an oblivious outbreak. My hope stirs me from sleep. It motions me to the door and outside where our collective dissonance is quickly swallowed by psithurism.
