My first 4th of July in the U.S, I was 17. My now-husband (then-tummy-flutterer) took me to his grandparents’ cabin near a small lake in remote Missourian back-country (to be eaten alive by “skeeters” which I, in my stubborn ignorance, called “mozzies.”) He made me ’smores and we set off fireworks while he told me about his childhood excursions to that very same cabin. My Aussie pride piped up and proclaimed that America was quite the spoiled child. Rebelling for the sake of rebelling. After all, my country was literally made up of convicts and we managed to remain loyal to the crown. He countered that Australia was the real spoiled child, living in Mama-Britain’s basement eating lamingtons and sipping tea. We got a good chuckle outa that. How I adored the rebellious streak in those darkly browed eyes...

It remains a source of delighted bewilderment to me how attracted I was to his adamant defense of independence, all while we were flirting with the idea of becoming dependent on each other forever.

A comment, just one line

to reveal a hush-hush held for some time,

in support of a previous regime

condemnation of our new leader’s first weeks,

she was always one of them, not what she seemed.

Well, burning bridges is not the finest way

although let me just say,

I have a desire to knock down every

pedestal that held that man in esteem,

every frail column that bolstered his steam.

She was supporting right under my nose

a despot who would strip me of my rights

my dignity, my life,

and I don’t want to say, but maybe it’s just,

a comment can make a friend former these days.

© Jasper A. Flintsmith 2021

#politics #poetry #friendship #fucktrump