From the far corner of the neighbor’s yard,
on the side that joins our side, it waves.
It arrived after we arrived, and in the wake
of the election. Would it be too much to call it
a menace? Just fabric hanging from a flex pole
so it moves both more and less freely,
like a thing trapped, knocking the new
privacy fence when a storm comes. Tangling,
then sagging, like clean wet laundry. It’s clear
(does it need to be said?) they’re MAGA
and we’re the only queer couple on the street,
one of us recently citizened—with the others
we filed through the scanner, unbelted, only his body
pulled aside and patted down, the guard
motioning me along, raising his voice
when I stopped and stalled the line. I recorded
my new husband, hand over his heart at the ceremony.
Now I can’t stop staring out back at this thing
I stood and pledged my allegiance to, that
for which it stands, for all those years of mornings.
And, look, how it followed us here, looming now always
along the property line, above the leaves,
the stripped branches, casting this long
bright shadow over the snow—
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