The president dreams his hand is the size
of the moon, of Jupiter. It is weighty
as the ocean pressing on its willing bed.
heavier than darkness, heavier than
the burnt out star in the heavens, mourning.

He dreams its reach is like the Amazon, long
Familiar and benevolent. It is wider
than the Mississippi where it swallows
the Delta whole. Longer than the python
who swallows the pig whole
converts it to snake skin, snake scales, fangs
longer than an old woman’s memory.

The president dreams his fingers are thicker
than the trunks of redwoods, thick as glacial
ice. They wrap and wind and slither
around the sweaty necks of sinners.
His fingernails sharp as sabers,
pluck out the infidels like seeds, propel
them in perfect arcs like crescent moons.
The people applaud.

The president dreams he has no grandmothers,
no mother, no sisters; he has no wife, no daughters. 

He dreams his Father
is the sky. His father contains everything:
daylight, minutes, rose petals, the footprints
of children in Gaza’s dust, diamonds
buried in mundane stone, the eyes of
the jaguar and the downy hair of a newborn.

He dreams his Father holds his hand, guides
it to its targets, to towers, tunnels, children's
fingers tinier than a centipede’s leg, shorter
than the last breath of a hummingbird. His Father
guides him with the wisdom of Mars
who stands back, sees the earth spinning
and staggering and knows best.