Mary Mills is a teacher of world languages. She has translated poetry from German to English, and her work, Voices of Theresienstadt, has appeared in Pacific Coast Philology. She also dabbles in poetry forms. Her version of an extended haiku is on as “Winter Solstice at Newgrange.” Her sestina, “SOMA” has appeared in The Potomac: A Journal of Poetry and Politics.


Trigger Warning

Words drop, disconnect and die.
Yet the babbling blather continues.
He looks at the teleprompter and claps,
hands moving without control.
He dances to the Russian program
that has created Misandroid.

Deep down in the darkness, Misandroid
hears huge, icy-black walls die,
their chunks smashing against his program.
Screams morph into laughter that continues
digging downward. Cybercrooks control
his deepest secrets and he claps.

In T Tower’s nethermost reaches, he claps
while his bloodied body shakes. Misandroid
drops it into a gold-plated crypt banks control.
A wave of funny Franklins floats down. Banks die
laughing as money floods the Dow, and continues
until the fake cash crashes their program.

Before Russia, Misandroid never had a program.
His bloated, human body only responded to claps.
Now Misandroid tweets the red cap sale continues
to make America empty again. Misandroid
is not human; he’s a fake so he cannot die.
He does a Russian dance and is under its control.

At the White House, he is beyond the control
of any advisors and only follows his own program
from Russia. Dancing with whores in Moscow; he’d die
if that got out. But that is fake news and he claps,
pats himself on the back. He’s so smart; he’s Misandroid,
with an IQ that is huge, following a program that continues

to spew crisis after crisis, an ongoing eruption continues
while everyone aboard his ship of fools cries “Damage control!”
His great people rush to jump ship and escape. Misandroid
has been elected and must dance and clap to the program.
Surrounded by a mound of empty water bottles, he drinks and claps.
His speech slurs. But he’s the healthiest president ever. He cannot die.

His tweets start to fade as he continues the Russian program.
He is losing control. His tweets stop. He claps and claps.
M’s might has struck, and Misandroid must die.

3 thoughts on “Misandroid

  1. As I read the poem the words created pictures in my head of Misandroid and his actions, as if I was watching a live puppet show.

  2. Dear Ms. Mills: Thank you for your appropriately surreal take on our slowly continuously growing nightmare here in the U.S. I hope the end of your poem rings true for you certainly know the damage done already and what remains at stake.

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