Post-Election Mourning Song

In morning circle, chins raised,

restless boys and sketching girls,

still flat chested, hear their teacher say,

“If you are like me and disagree that

you have only two choices, you can write in

a new candidate or not vote at all.

There is always a third choice.”

The next day, votes mostly tallied,

girls barely spoke, boys did not tell

of their fathers’ morning dread,

their mothers’ tears as it became clear

who their sons may soon choose

to mimic and their daughters’ hold

on their own growing bodies

would erode, unprotected.

When the teacher, his recent

sour mood noticeably uplifted,

picked up his guitar and began

to strum the morning song,

the boys and girls sang

along sweetly, as directed.

Throat a knot, I could not join them,

only nod, when they whispered truth

that afternoon among themselves.

Nov. 13, 2024