The President’s Arms Are Like Oak Branches
spread out further
than you’d imagine
they could reach
without splintering

they propel whoever
is within them
into his chest hair
or toward each

other’s chins and
hips so it seems
he’s all a curve
of flesh. When

they hang by his
side, they are enormous,
tall as a child
he could hoist above

him as if tossing
feathers before
they fold into navy
wool without a life

like an octopus
out of its element,
its tentacles dangling
by its side,

uneasy with nothing
to wrap around