The Back of His License

George Murray


I woke up sweating in the new
year’s darkness, worried
about Trump’s organs.
I realize it’s unlikely he signed
his card, but if he did,
perhaps accidentally
autographing on autopilot,
How impoverished would a body
have to be to not reject them?
Imagine driving around
with Trump’s liver in you,
his spleen, his kidney, his marrow,
grafts of his skin like orange
bandages over your old burns.
His tendons creaking in your legs,
his lungs sucking up air, slack
face stapled to your skull
like a Halloween mask,
a stubby-fingered hand dangling
gratefully from your stump, needing
years of physio to grab again.
How could you ever be sure
of what you see with his eyes
sending light to your brain,
or why your pulse keeps rising
with his heart bumping
against your ribs? How could you
sit at a red light, running
your fingers through that hair?
I get it, you’re desperate.
You signed on your own line
and bought the best lemon you could
afford at the time.
And if his pink Cadillac parts fit
your chugging Dodge,
who cares? So long as you get
one more chance to arrive home,
hold your kids, kiss your wife.
Maybe with his hands or open mouth.