Animal Truth

If I were a cougar, and deep

in dark soil of night I often have been,

I would not eat a shred

of trump’s fetid carcass

face up on this log;

instead I’d watch and rest, then saunter among boulders

and oaks in the cold.

I’d leap over his body twittered with flies,

flick my tail at the layers of rot,

those infinite lies.

I’d pass by his stench no matter

the weeks since my last kill.

Let the maggots crawl out to feast,

finally give him his due

under the joyous gold light

of the moon and of all

that is true.