“Stephen Harper with an ornamental gourd on his head” and “Ice” by Lily S. May
Ice
His eyes are ice.
If they ever melt, it’s not for us.
He’s our big Daddy,
and he loves to control us,
to scare us.
He wants to spank us.
We can think what we like
as long as we don’t say it
out loud,
as long as we’re quiet
and scared
he’s got us where he wants us.
He should be handsome,
but he’s not.
We admit we think about his looks
only in our dreams,
except for his eyes,
which we talk about openly
as we see him calculating,
wary,
ready to pounce.
Oh yes, he’s our big, bad Daddy
and he wants our votes for his party.
He wants his party to win so big
he can have his way with us for the next four years
and there’s not a thing, he likes to think,
that we can do about it.
And he’s probably right,
I mean that he could rule
like the stern Daddy he is,
because our democracy only goes so deep.
and we, struggling to live,
shouting at injustice,
shouting out our pain in moments of bravery
would only see the reflections of shards of ice
in his eyes.
And yet,
and yet
he cannot control the unexpected
and we are patient, if nothing else.
We wait and we watch.
We know he is weak inside.
We hear it on the other side of his righteousness
and see it in the skin
he would rather not inhabit.
We wait and we plan.
We hold to the light he would deny us.
We find we are braver than we thought.
We are amazed, after all the brainwashing,
that we can think at all for ourselves.
And we do.
And his eyes are running now.