In this dream, the driver’s asleep at the wheel.
The dream won’t let the driver’s foot touch the brakes.
It’s night, and the headlights won’t turn on.
In this dream, highways loop in labyrinths,
deer clog the exit ramps. Wild fires
savage forests of magnolia, loblolly pines, mountain laurel.
Forecasters on the radio warn to stay inside,
shut the windows, don’t breathe the code orange air.
In this dream, police hose a circle of water protectors
in the subzero dark, spray rubber bullets
and tear gas at Black protesters on freeways.
In this dream a Syrian boy caked with bomb-blast
wipes blood from his eye with a tiny fist.
In this dream, men in three-piece suits with fashy haircuts
ink swastikas on concrete benches,
grab the vaginas of women with dragonfly tattoos,
snatch the hijab off a mother’s head.
In this dream a fevered white man in a church
shoots down nine Black worshippers.
In this dream a president sings Amazing Grace
with his whole heart in his throat.
In this dream a block-letter sign
outside a church with the tallest, whitest spire
shouts, “PRAY FOR DONALD TR**P.”
In this dream a shard of grief is lodged behind my breastbone.