• Trish MacEnulty

The day after

There’s a sick feeling, a stone, in my gut. My intestines twist into knots. I can barely hold up my head, hold open my eyes, hold down my breakfast, hold in my shattered heart. My bones quiver. My skin feels dead. I try not to think, wandering in a Novocaine daze. I cannot fathom…

Outside, the day is full of sunlight. The air sparkles. My little dog leaps for his ball just like any other day. The trees bobble in the breeze as if smoke never floated over Auschwitz, as if slaves never screamed under the lash, as if yesterday didn’t happen. Am I being overly dramatic? God, I hope so.

If someone breaks into your house and steals your belongings, it doesn’t destroy your life. You may be hurt, angry, fearful, but you get over it. You get a better lock. You replace the stolen items. You learn a lesson. But if someone breaks into your house and poisons your animals, slaughters your children, emasculates your man, and then rapes you, one, two, three brutes in a row, you don’t get over it. There is no lock which can protect you and you have nothing left to protect. Ask the ones with the tattoos on their wrists. Ask the women of Rwanda and Sudan. Ask the drowning refugees. Ask the indigenous people all over the world.

So now the question is: What’s it gonna be, Trump? Will you be satisfied plundering the country’s coffers or do you need more? Do you need to place your ten-thousand dollar loafer on someone’s neck and hear them beg for a mercy that you can’t imagine? Are you Bozo or Crazy Clown?

We are waiting. We are watching. And then there’s this: we’ll be ready.


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