This is politics:
the look between mother and child;
the possibility of safe passage from room to room;
negotiations that dry tears.

Every day I revise
the moot feminist lesson, that it’s all personal,
that behaviour informs the rule, that we small ones
are blood to the social vein.

Talking to him here in the kitchen
of Barack Obama and the great leap forward,
I’m watching his strained shoulders
and thinking of our loveless bed.

If it’s more important to me
to hold a penis in the palm of my hand
than to discuss a national election, am I
a quark subsumed, unobservable?

Or can politics be rocked
by the penis-holding palm,
the flavour of that dynamic,
how such flavour informs the wide web,
from particle to wave to wash?