I hope Hillary cried.
I hope she cried in Bill’s arms
and he came through.
I hope Bill stroked her hair
and kissed the top of her head and
whispered words of comfort.
I hope Hillary screamed.
I hope she screamed in the shower
with no one to hear
while scalding hot water
cascaded down her back
and a vein pulsed crazily in her neck.
I hope Hillary threw things.
I hope when she hiked those
magical New York woods in the fall
she picked up rocks, branches,
anything lying in the leaves
and threw them like a girl: angry, furious, fast and hard.
I hope Hillary laughed.
I hope Chelsea wisecracked
wicked and funny so she
got Hill hysterical, manic,
out of her mind with glee
and salty bitter tears rolled down her face.
I hope Hillary cried
for herself, for the tragedy, the misogyny,
the injustice and the pain.
I hope she’s carrying a righteous grudge
against half the white women of America.
I hope she cried in Bill’s arms.