Chilled
Chilled
Not by the ice,
solidified beside the road,
not by the floes
on the surface of the lake,
the glassy skin encasing the lagoon.
Chilled through the TV,
through the radio:
frozen hearts under camouflage
of folksy style, doctrine of faux religion
masquerading as high-minded faith.
Listen. Behind the words.
Hear that rhythmic beat?
Chilling.
Mexicans, maybe they’re rapists,
taking jobs. Muslims—dangerous.
Build walls. Keep them out.
Send them back.
Crowds cheer.
Master of discord—I’m a unifier.
More cheers.
Waterboarding, yes— torture,
whatever works.
Terrorists—
kill them,
kill their families.
The mob roars, eggs on
unfiltered bullying, childish taunts,
crude language. The mob
feels impotent and angry,
itches to wield the hard butts
of its Second Amendment rights or
to contribute a steel-toed kick at its opponents.
Patriotism on Viagra. Chilling.
Do you hear the cadence?
Relentless. Getting louder.
Steady stomp of boots, marching.
Phyllis Wax writes in Milwaukee on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry has appeared in Ars Medica, Naugatuck River Review, Verse Wisconsin, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Widows’ Handbook, Out of Line and The New Verse News. She may be reached at poetwax38@gmail.com.