Dear Donald:

by krstaten

You say “locker room”
and I wake up
to thorns scraping
my hips
from vines I had been
too sleepdrunk
to know were there.

Roots growing down into
all the bleeding spaces,
prying them open;
shoots climbing up
through my throat,
holding me silent.

You say “all men,”
as if in reassurance–
and I have blades
where teeth should be,
scraping the dense
air, ready to cut down
this whole forest
to show you you’re right.