With all the talk at last night’s debate about Donald’s groping hands and which candidate is whose puppet, the candidates’ clear statements on abortion rights brought a terrible image of Donald Trump’s America into my head.

You know, I dreamt of you last night. You had your crocodile smile. Your hair was different and you spoke English. Your jaw twitched as you gave a lopsided smile and raised your eyebrows at me.

On Thursday, November 9, 2000, I drove my car, grill first, into a ravine.

150 years ago I’d be in enemy territory. South of the Mason-Dixon, here on the lip of the Piedmont Plain. My families fought here, some of their bones didn’t make it back up North.

In lieu of a more formal announcement of my intention, now fulfilled thanks to the generosity of the Swiss Confederation in granting me asylum, to part ways with your organization, I have written a poem.

Today I bought canned food and stacked it in the garage. I filled up the water tank we usually take camping and rolled it in there too. Just in case.

They come riding. Riding under blistering suns and bloody moons, leaving their womenfolk to a voiceless fate.