There is no name for a nation
undoing its moral underpinnings,
freeing itself from the constraints
of the democratic experiment
the same way a woman sighs with such relief
when taking off her bra before bed.
There is no name for the dreams that come after:
drowning, climbing, plummeting to a certain death
and waking to find only faint sunlight
making its way through the window.
There are no maps for this place,
this soft burning that is not hate
but keeps trying to be.
There is no name for the uprising of the human heart.
P.S. 69 more of my poems here.