Phineas Knowles

Five Days Post-Election

I
 
a pedestrian homes in on my friend,
dousing her blouse in a coffee air-strike
that misses her face
“your time is coming, faggot”
she is a war veteran commanding her life
to finally grow in happiness as she
instead of he
 
another friend is a grad student
their dream to validate and improve
the non-white, non-straight, non-cis experience
teach the difference between intent and impact
strangers target their social media
“get your running shoes on
the extermination is about to begin”
 
for months, talks of fleeing fluttered
a plea, a strained hope not to be necessary
now they flurry raucous
attempting synchronized swallow sweeps
away from a city, a state, this country
crisis hotlines flood Facebook
 
II
 
I take stock of my instruments—
two harps, two tin whistles, and an Irish bodhrán
would I leave them behind?
 
sacrifice music for speed?
how much of my life can fit in a car, a backpack,
the lint-filled pockets of my jacket?
 
I don’t want to imagine this
but the election’s impact loads a gun
aimed at my chirping heart
 
I list the essentials—
wallet, IDs, tax records, laptop, flip-phone, and chargers
plan to act on survival over joy
 
preserve my existence over accumulated treasures
my hand hovers over a passport
ready to fly before the click