The pundits kept talking “moderate”
And “suburban Republican women”
And I just wanted to scream.
There has never been a poet with a moderate dream.
Here, moderate does not exist.
The seasons take or give.
The airy cliffs frighten, or inspire;
The attractive view only in this light can live.
The rhyme scheme is either smooth or dire.
There is water, or graves.
There are melting ruins, or carefully hidden staves.
The least is not protected.
The old lives on, respected.
Or, sudden death
Mocks the intaken breath.
We don’t know what, from one minute to the next,
Will lie about, yawning; or jump up, and perplex.
There is no middle ground.
Either the poem is boring
Or it has a beautiful sound.
It is either: “I hate them, I hate them,
And because you hate them, I love you,”
Or: “I’m very sorry, I hate you, too.”
In America, how can the woman who is pro-life,
Love the abortionist?
The abortionist may love his wife,
The tallest mountain may be covered in mist,
But the moderate does not exist
In American politics.
The proud pro-choice block will not abide
Mothers not choosing; judgement looking at them and looking inside.
A “moderate” smoker. Sure, “moderate.”
Until you crave the one cigarette.
Mother? Poet? Do you want me, or not?
Moderate? There is no moderate:
I want to erase it, yes, that’s it,
Or, my God I love this poem a lot.