(poetry diary 119) sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I daydream about having the magical power to get into the President-Elect’s head  & read him literature that might try to force him to develop empathy for people other than his own.
This tweet by Jennifer Mendelsohn illustrates a similar wish:
I am aware that even if I had the power to do this it probably wouldn’t work, but this is still the sort of piece I’d want him to read….
The Boatman
Carolyn Forché 
We were thirty-one souls all, he said, on the gray-sick of sea
in a cold rubber boat, rising and falling in our filth.
By morning this didn’t matter, no land was in sight,
all were soaked to the bone, living and dead.
We could still float, we said, from war to war.