by Celeste DeSario
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AI-generated graphic by NightCafé for The New Verse News. |
My friends say,
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.
Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching.
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover
But I can’t.
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen—
ten fingers, no illusions about me…
I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view.
I’m too afraid to look…
Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet
just to fill the tank,
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.
Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?
Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.
Don’t text your political poems.
You know we can’t have those on our phones.
Those Monsters Under the Bed do exist
and have crawled off the white spaces.
And now they lurk.
Waiting. Watching.
Listening to our conversations.
Recording.
Keep those words hidden.
Under cover
But I can’t.
I’m afraid.
I’m not the MAGA Dream Girl, you know.
I’m just an ordinary citizen—
ten fingers, no illusions about me…
I haven’t been to D.C. for a long time,
so, no that wasn’t me trailing my hand
through the algae-green water of the Reflecting Pool.
If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to see my reflection anyway—
the water clouded with bacteria,
and green scum rising to the top…
obscuring my view.
I’m too afraid to look…
Yesterday I pulled $70 out of my wallet
just to fill the tank,
even though I can’t really go anywhere anymore.
Who wants to face the airport check-in desk
and wind up on the floor, guns pointing at you,
for the chance to sit on a boat and watch
the icebergs calve and collapse into a warming Disenchantment Bay?
Cracking, thundering, echoing across the water
as they melt, sending waves skyward
while the tourists clap and cheer—
even though the earth is screaming at us
to bring down the heat.
Everything will be okay, because a deal with Iran
Is “imminent”, “close”, “finalized”.
Promised and promised…
At least forty times so far.
I’m not feeling it.
So, go back to being afraid.
Does that work for you?
Did it work in East Germany under Stasi?
Where an unfamiliar car parked nearby,
made you pull 1984 off your shelves.
Where neighbors would dig through your trash
searching for forensic evidence—
contraband chocolate wrappers from the West,
discarded letters or carbon paper
snatched up and pasted back together.
Evidence of thinking.
Where even a child’s birthday card
was ripped open before reaching its destination
No. It didn’t work.
And Leni’s footage?
The kids, clad in uniforms,
stiff with creases,
climbing flagpoles just to glimpse The Fuhrer.
Cheering, whistling as though he were a rock star.
Children reporting their parents’ dinner conversations—
Complaints of bread and potatoes again.
The long lines, the lack of butter.
The radio dial tuned in, low, listening to the BBC,
listening for the real truth of the world
through forbidden airwaves.
Those kids were patriots.
Where was I?
Oh. I’m still here. Stuck.
Staring at a screen where I delete my own words.
Do I dare to press send?
Will those agents be knocking on my door?
Scrolling through my phone?
Scrutinizing my computer files?
I’m almost at the end of my poem,
but I can’t send it to my friends.
I don’t want the border guards to deny anyone entry,
Or to detain people just trying to see their aging parents.
I guess I will send the poem out into the world.
To a writer. A poet.
Someone who knows the power of words.
Someone who provides a platform
for those of us who need it.
Especially need it.
Today.
Now.
More than ever.
Celeste DeSario enjoys breaking down big political illusions while also writing about personal grit and artistic passion. Her recent work appears in The New Verse News, The Dissident Voice, The Changing Times, The SportScribe, and The Ekphrastic Review. This portfolio includes sharp political satires like “There are Monsters Under My Bed”, "I’m the MAGA Dream Girl”, "The Peeling of American Flag Blue," and “I Ran,” alongside reflective pieces like "Bridging and Grappling," "A Leap of Affirmation,” and “Gaudi's Unbending Vision".
