Today
an earthquake
will level
the suburbs of
greater
LA. No one will
be slain
since thoughts
& prayers
will work for
the very first time.
And today
the bosom of ICE
will thaw in
piercing sleet,
the needle in 99
trillion sheaves
at last
pinpointed.
Mexicans will be
assembled to
share a cake,
provided
reparations
for 1848.
And today
no soldiers will
be needed.
Either in
plastic or in flesh.
Hasbro will give
its profit
to grieving
widows—
in every single
country
on the planet.
Boys will
play with dolls
and
keep a home.
Effigies
will be watered
from our wells.
And today
I’ll write a
poem
that thunders
the world.
And today
reserves will be no more.
No one will be
ghettoed.
Settlers &
Shoshoni
will fish from
frothing
streams. Wash it
down with
milk from the
buffalo—
offered, never
purloined.
Nothing will be
taken
from this day
on.
And today?
A lion’s sentry
of the
rose will be uprooted
from its paw—
not by a
children’s
fable—but a
trophy
hunter vowing
he’ll
go vegan from
here on in.
And tomorrow?
America will
finally choose
the woman of
colour. Soaring,
magnificent
colour.
It should have
been
yesterday. It
should have
always been
yesterday.
—for Kamala
©2026 Andreas
Gripp
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