Happy Election Day, America! Let’s celebrate with “No More I Love You’s,” Juan Parra‘s politically surreal poem from our Fall 2017 issue.

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I WAS WEARING MY BLONDE WIG
When Trump pulled me over.

America my love, I thought I knew you.
But you’re living so wild now:
Bowing like Franco. Dancing like Mussolini.
Smiling like Pinochet. Clapping like Stalin.
I thought you loved me.
Once upon a time you would wink at me
And I would whisper: “Becquer and Lorca,” in your ear.

“I’m gonna need you to step out of the car,” Trump said while his upper lip twitched.“No more I love you’s is right,” he said, as he aggressively turned off the stereo.
“I’m gonna need you to balance yourself on your thumbs for the next ten minutes.
That better not be a wig you’re wearing, your tongue better not be having love affairs with
Other dialects.”

Thirty seconds later:

My thumbs cracked under the pressure of my fat limbs,
Forcing me to give up Moliere, hiding under my tongue. To point towards
Tchaikovsky crying of terror in my ear. Conned into admitting my love for
Bashevis and everything Yiddish.
My poor wig prayed and endured under the stomps of an enraged Tyrant.

“You’re not real. From the vomit your tongue stinks of, you probably don’t love my People,” Trump raged, while he hauled me from my ears and crammed me in his policeman’s hat.

Now, straightforwardly, no more swans. Or dances on rose petals. Or sentimental education. No more Poets and love affairs. No more Romance before sunrise; let’s talk of ethnicity Diplomas, of bans & tariffs, of odious men in white robes talking Nazism & looking Ominous on centric Boulevards. America my love you are so wild: There are no I love you’s for Me, In your heart.

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JUAN  PARRA is a Cuban-American poet. His work has featured in the Indiana Review, Basalt, The Lake, Pear Drop, Driftwood Press, 4ink7, FLAPPERHOUSE, and REAL.