The President identifies as an alien shill. He has trouble falling down stairs. And up them. I mean, he forgot how to fly. All the other Presidents laugh at him behind their hands. Hands turning into skillets full of hot grease they sip with pleasure. We always thought they were something else, something like small gods or immature statues. The clothes they wear cost millions of dollars and go with them to the grave, it’s said, but do they ever die? Does anyone? One night lying in bed with my eyes closed I felt my body spread and become permeable to something like stars–tiny points of light. I tried to stay there but the dog had to go out. It was a condition of no Presidents, I thought, but no gravity either. I floated to the ceiling but don’t remember that part. I forget lots of things, like what to do with bacon grease and how pigs are as intelligent as Presidents. And vice versa. That is not an insult though you might think so. One time a pig came into the house. It was happy to live here, it said, with us on the surface. The grave had been cold and nobody there knew what pigs eat. This pig wants to run for President one day. It is slowly accumulating its wardrobe, having ascertained that that is the main requirement. It has my vote.
Kyla Houbolt (she, her) occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn’s Fool and Tuned were published in 2020. More about them on her website, kylahoubolt.com. Her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.