I am an emigrant
of my ancestors.
From a home, not
of my choosing,
but a home none
the less.
You look at me in
the rear view mirror,
sticking to the vinyl
bench seat on this hot
summer night, and
you see me in you.
and my Skin of you;
and my Eyes of yours;
and my Hair of you;
and my Thoughts…
only of me. My castle
walls are built high.
Still, I’m along for the ride.
The radio dial smooth
as it rolls to the left
between your fingers.
And as you take the
corner, your thumb falls.
The voice from the
speakers, a raspy whisper,
attempts of tickling my
eardrums. Propaganda
falls to the floorboard,
xenophobia out the window.
The red of the stoplight
floods the cab, but I fear
not of drowning. I’m scared
that you, the driver, will not
only perish, but also swerve
and take out oncoming traffic.
As I look into your eyes
from the backseat, I see fear.
I see pain. I see the lost eyes
of a child long forgotten.
Taught to never show their
hurt, but only to inflict it.
You strap your megaphone
hearing aid on and gorilla
glue your goggles to the
screen. You hang on every
spitting word from
O’Reilly and Hannity.
They are the generals who
buckle in to ride shotgun to
the fool of the red hat
brigade. On their soapbox,
they surgically remove
critical thought to the masses.
They take aim towards the
lost children. The ones who
never stood a chance. The
ones wrapped in their flags
and washed of holy water,
still fresh of the womb.
You see, it’s easier to control
when it begins before learning
to walk. The user guide for it
can be found in the glove box,
under the glock, the stack of
napkins, and take-out menus.
Just before the stoplight turns
green, the car pointed towards
the red side of the boarder, the
knobs for the car door locks
vanish with a click. Eyes meeting
in the mirror, I resemble you not.
After the light turns green, the
whisper from the speakers, now
coming from the mouth. Your
tongue sounds of static snow
growing more agitated with each
syllable, with each word, with
each agitprop.
With no handle to make my exit
from the coup’s backseat, I kick
out the back window. Escape the
discrepancies and false narratives.
Never will this emigrant immigrate
to your land of YOUnited thought.
Phillip Hurt
Phillip is a disabled Veteran who lives in Western Colorado with his family, and when not at his blue collar job, he enjoys birthing creativity into this world through his writing. Phillip has been published by Black Coffee Creative, Sober.com, The Light Within, and currently in contract with HellBound Books.