Friendship in Trump’s America

You’re pregnant with your third daughter.

I see the baby bump on social media,

followed by posts about how protests are

unpatriotic, how women have lost no rights

yet. You’re a good mother. I can tell

by the pictures of your two girls, golden-haired

and napping, smiles sappy with sleep.

Their bodies chose such an open posture

to plop down on those couch cushions,

and you are to thank for their sense of safety.

I type a timid response, ask if his comments

about snatching women without consent

encourage assault? You tell me that’s ridiculous.

I’m entitled to an opinion, but that’s absurd.

I wonder about the first girl he ever grabbed,

what color her eyes are. If her favorite animal

is a bird, or could ever be again.

Your two girls are sleeping on the couch,

and you’re pregnant with your third.

Emily Paige Wilson’s poetry has been nominated for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and two Pushcart Prizes. Her work can be found in The Adroit Journal, The Boiler Journal, Hayden’s Ferry Review, PANK, and Thrush, among others. She lives in Wilmington, NC, where she received her MFA from UNCW, and works as an English adjunct. She rules her life like a fine skylark and is working on her crow pose.