Let’s Play a Game
by Halee Kirkwood
Imagine that I am Lucifer,
and that you are Donald Trump and I
am watching the sweat bead
above your sour-milk lips
as I twiddle my thumbs and think
of what to do with your sorry ass.
I imagine, as I set my pitchfork
to warm against the searing coals,
that someone has finally had the common sense
to assassinate you, and that the world is celebrating
by housing all the displaced migrants in your hot-tub
suite hotel rooms, spinning your silk bedsheets
into new hijabs for girls whose old ones
have been dirtied by the soil of too many borders
and by merely existing on a planet where oxygen was still yours to freely
breathe.
You can wait with the coals blistering
your heels as it is whispered to me that
customs is ready for you, Donald, are you ready
for the only ICE in hell, Donald, I sure hope
you brought the proper paperwork.
You see, you’re here because you tried to foreclose
on a house that was already sagging into the river.
Now all us evicted folk have summer
and heartbreak carved into our bones
like a second language.
Us evicted folk were what made that house sing
and you will never forget us evicted folk
because a house will always hum with the memory
of the hands which built it,
Donald, there will be no real estate opportunities
for you in Hell.
And I am only the first devil who has waited for you,
unwilling to fade into whiteness like all
your precious angels, Donald, get along.
Donald, your monogrammed towels won't save you now,
there’re many more devils for you to meet.
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