ANTIDOTE
A found poem, using the words of Donald Trump, told then remade
I.
Women are always griping and bitching because uterus. Rapists and Drug Pushers invading America’s uterus, that sad loser, fat pigs and lightweights, total zeros. She needs to be punished, for letting herself be raped, by Mexicans, by Muslims, hiding in her uterus. Burn her village down. Save her. Send her to jail. She’s not a ten, not the girl I want. I want my daughter, who is a ten. Get the country back, wall it, because Viagra because that’s my Black man, those bitches and complainers. Not my country. Send them all back. Because America, because illegal, because she’s so hot. I’d date her.
II.
Send women into countries, lightweight arms opening to her that don’t punish or invade. The horizon always zeroing out into endlessness and its undoing of her jails. A girl the women want inside those countries feeding on every golden thing, tens of everything, fat with dear and close bodies, so much plenty of kindness. A Black woman, a Black man, Mexican woman, Muslim man, sitting at that same table, eating and eating a feast. No one needs to be saved. A pig is not a pig covered in wet earth, but a sad-eyed pet that sniffs the hunger from the ground to guide you.
Here there is no such thing as losing, only the grip of people loving the hot sun on their shoulders as they work. There is no back to turn your back to, no worry of invasion or sunburn. A furry bitch sighing heavily at the doorstep of this America, loved animal, the country at its back and all its daughters tucked in for the night. They taste the dates offered to them, their sweetness nothing to complain about, even its slight sting. Hunger is not a contest, something to be treated with Viagra. Hunger is for sharing food, the passing of bread from one to the other, walls melting like the butter spread out to taste, so everything is wide open to each other’s palms.