I love how tender you make
the hands of a Trump voter. As if your delicate
were, itself, delicate. You, chickadee, awake
a gentleness from the same fingers
that clicked like on a post advocating
debtors prison. You smell this green
world from inside your first, inhaling
your mother’s unseeable goodness, trying
(like so many of us) to salvage her
sublime. So, it’s unsurprising your soul
could weaken this frost-bit, southern sundae
of a Samaritan, melted and refrozen
his caramel ribbons, knotted at the bottom.
