by Julia B. Levine
Say it and it will be so.
Say there are borders that cannot be broken.
That science is an expertly shot horror film
we are wise to avoid before bed.
Say that an executive order
has unshackled our lives from natural law,
our flesh from the entwined entire.
That, in time, we do not vanish.
Say that the first week you know it's terminal,
I bake bread and bear it warm,
swaddled in paper towels, against my chest.
Outside, your husband picks lemons
shin-deep in a lawn gone neon-green.
In pictures above the table,
your two boys shine.
Say that I’m not sick too
of love as the original congress on loss.
Of hope handcuffed to habeas corpus.
Say blue for your eyes, black for your hair,
wren for your twitching hand in mine.
Say that it’s not happening
so that it won’t, the world no longer turning
at the speed of betrayal, a little sunlight instead
sown across your kitchen floor.
Say that we are poised to enter spring
and in the alt-truth all around us
it's smooth sailing, easy peasy,
nothing but the blast furnaces
of the almond orchards fired up,
exploding in a sudden, ethereal snow.