before dinner my father
gorges himself on alternative facts.
the people on TV wear church-worthy clothes
and almost match his Minnesotan accent,
so they must be right.
by the time he reaches the table
his temples shine, cholesterol climbing
up across his face.
he is so livid with liberals, the hot dish
splatters as he fills his plate.
carrots and noodles propelling
off his spoon like arrows
as he avoids eye contact with me.
after he’s cooled, we walk to the garage
and roll out our gear: head-to-toe camo,
binoculars, curved steel knives, compound bows.
flashlights for finding one another
after the hunt.
it is september 2016, and i’m visiting home
in the name of obtaining venison.
i don’t tell him i really only want
to shoot a deer with my camera.
antler markings on trees, our steps
softened by soggy leaves, hawks we’ve seen
not see us in our leaf-print jumpsuits —
these are the tangible truths
that bring back his pre-Fox News gleam.
as days pass and the deer elude me,
something else catches instead.
sitting in the living room, my dad actually laughs
at the funny anti-Trump memes i find online
and show him on my phone. he begins to feel bad
for Bernie. he watches a speech
by Michelle Obama without sneering.
it’s so little, but it’s more than before.
still he nods along with republicans.
enraged one evening i finally let it rip:
describing how Trump’s behavior
brings me back to the yelling
of exes, their voices hoisted
over my head like chairs.
after every breakup of mine,
my parents would claim they knew
all along how wrong the person was
for me. so, i ask my dad,
why can’t you see how bad Trump would be
for the country? for me?
i leave my parents’ place the next morning,
days earlier than planned. i can’t stay
where racists and rapists are more welcome
than me. my dad weeps openly, knowing
he won’t change my mind. then insists
i take my bow and arrows with me
in case i need to protect myself
along my way.
on November 9th, he texts me
for the first time in weeks.
“i didn’t vote for him,” he reveals.
he mentions immorality, his conscience.
how he just couldn’t do it.
a few weeks later, he posts a picture
on facebook mocking Hillary Clinton’s hair.
looks like i’ll be back this autumn, ready
to exchange weapons and wisdom.
we still have a long way to go
to get through these woods.
AJ Dent is a freelance journalist, photographer, and poet based in Oakland, CA. Her work has been featured by numerous publications, including The Nature Conservancy, The Museum of Pop Culture, STACKEDD Magazine, and The Capitol Hill Times.
