Afraid, as we all would be of the dreaded
liberal, lesbian terrorist driving her
maroon Honda Pilot, armed with a stuffed
animal in the glove compartment and an
Australian shepherd named Hazelnut
set to attack in the back seat.

She had dropped her six-year-old son
off at school, as do most domestic terrorists
and was driving back home with her partner,
Rebecca to finish unpacking, they had not
been in Minneapolis all that long, and still had
summer clothes, china and weaponry in boxes.

She was described by everyone, Mom,
her ex, neighbors as the kindest and most
compassionate menace to the community
they had ever known, who was an obvious
threat with her activism, stuffie, and of course,
that sideways maroon Honda.

Afraid as we all would be of Rebecca’s phone
and Renee’s threat of “I’m not mad at you” —
is it any wonder that ICE agent Ross was
fearing for his life, when he shot her in the face,
arm and chest, aghast also as he would have been
of her songs, poetry and her humanity.

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