Loving Thy Right-Wing Neighbor

It’s accidental—our tiptoe toward 
the political sinkholes 
as we yawn at twilight on 
your (literally) greener grass. 
My quick chicken recipe    
reminds you of long work hours
which jabs awake the shot 
they want your arm to take. 
I step away, remember you 
might be even more contagious 
than me. Venus is so far
the only wink in the sky.
We swat at our ankles, talk 
mosquito spray, the FDA, oops—
and my mental crossing guard
emerges yellow-jacketed, 
stop sign held straight out. 
You were the first to knock 
on our door, offer your number. 
Next month your church will pitch
foam tombstones for fetuses,
a Halloween trick turned sad. 
Mine’s got a sign that says people 
who never step foot in yours 
matter. I haven’t been this tired 
since pregnancy, I say and you 
agree. If we talk of summer heat 
in fall, we’ll skirt the edges 
of the cause. It’s not our fault
our nation’s alleluia 
is an ode to what’s left over
after bombs. Here’s something 
I might say in tomorrow’s 
unseasonable weather: 
Did you know a church beside 
the towers stayed upright, 
unscathed? Not a single broken pane. 
The sycamore that blocked it 
from the blast is now a stump. 
On break from recovering 
bodies, the first responders 
slept in pews. Their jackets—
the same caution yellow 
as my inner crossing guard—
became pillows beneath 
their sooty faces. Alarm 
had collapsed for once into 
what it never gives us: rest.