Loving Thy Right-Wing Neighbor

A poem--and a blessing--for election season

Dear friends,

Greetings from a November Monday in New Jersey that feels more like June: 76 degrees, sun baking through the southern-facing windows. On this eve of Election Day in the U.S., I’m popping into your mailbox to share my poem published with EcoTheo Collective, called “Loving Thy Right-Wing Neighbor.”

We live in a town that folks would call “purple.” This suggests a harmonious blend of blue and red. In actuality, it means that the very polarized ways of seeing America must share yard lines and fences. Rainbow pride flags wave beside “Don’t Tread on Me” in about equal measure.

I fundamentally disagree with half my neighbors. But I belong to an obscure religion that tells me I have to do only two things: Love God. And love my neighbor. Here’s the poem I wrote to try to reflect that challenge. (If you go to the EcoTheo website, you can hear me reading it.)

As we head into Election Day and its aftermath, may we take good care of ourselves and one another. May we have courage to see truly the results. May we allow ourselves joy or grief or rage or relief, but not despair. May we remember that the most beautiful things about this world likely won’t make the headlines, this or any week. And may we heed the advice of my wise pal, Steve Kuusisto, who offered this pep-talk: “Let’s stay hydrated, listen to excellent music. And resolve like Jimmy Carter to never stop doing the best work we can.”

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Loving Thy Right-Wing Neighbor

It’s accidental—our tiptoe toward 
the political sinkholes 
as we yawn at twilight on 
your (literally) greener grass. 
My quick chicken recipe    
reminds you of long work hours
which jabs awake the shot 
they want your arm to take. 
I step away, remember you 
might be even more contagious 
than me. Venus is so far
the only wink in the sky.
We swat at our ankles, talk 
mosquito spray, the FDA, oops—
and my mental crossing guard
emerges yellow-jacketed, 
stop sign held straight out. 
You were the first to knock 
on our door, offer your number. 
Next month your church will pitch
foam tombstones for fetuses,
a Halloween trick turned sad. 
Mine’s got a sign that says people 
who never step foot in yours 
matter. I haven’t been this tired 
since pregnancy, I say and you 
agree. If we talk of summer heat 
in fall, we’ll skirt the edges 
of the cause. It’s not our fault
our nation’s alleluia 
is an ode to what’s left over
after bombs. Here’s something 
I might say in tomorrow’s 
unseasonable weather: 
Did you know a church beside 
the towers stayed upright, 
unscathed? Not a single broken pane. 
The sycamore that blocked it 
from the blast is now a stump. 
On break from recovering 
bodies, the first responders 
slept in pews. Their jackets—
the same caution yellow 
as my inner crossing guard—
became pillows beneath 
their sooty faces. Alarm 
had collapsed for once into 
what it never gives us: rest.