“Discourse” + a call for more anti-ICE art

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***Edit (Oct 9, 2026): I’ve continued revising this one; here is a new draft:

***Edit (Feb 17, 2026): there’s a video of me performing this poem at a Monarca fundraiser here. The audio pulled from that performance is also one of the tracks on our fundraiser EP, Spring Is Coming.

New poem, plus a few related links:

Full text of the new poem is below. Thanks for reading. It goes without saying that poetry is not enough in this moment. But I would push us all (myself included) to take up space IN poetry/art spaces, bring these conversations anywhere they aren’t already happening, and continue trying to shape/shift the narrative. In this context of this call for more anti-ICE poetry, music, visual art, and beyond, the key line in this poem is probably “the call is not to say something perfect; it is to make noise.”

Three final thoughts:

  • For artists who want to keep thinking critically about what we can contribute right now, check out my asynchronous class “meeting the moment: political poetry and the anthemic impulse.”
  • On January 6, 2026, I’ll be facilitating an in-person “narrative interventions lab” in Minneapolis where we’ll continue talking about this stuff. More info here.
  • On February 5, 2026, I’ll be facilitating a virtual class via Button Poetry called “SALT, WARMTH, AND FORCE: POETRY AGAINST ICE.” I don’t think the 2026 classes are live yet for registration, but they will be here.

There are two drafts of this poem! One written in late 2025, and one written in mid-2026. I prefer the later one, but I will include both below just for the sake of a peek into the process. Also, evergreen reminder that reading poems on your phone might mess up the linebreaks (more relevant for the 2025 draft).

Let Your Heart Be a Whistle – 2026 Draft

by Kyle Tran Myhre

This poem opens with a quote: It is totally reasonable and acceptable for American citizens to look at their next-door neighbors and say, “I want to live next to people who I have something in common with; I don’t want to live next to four families of strangers. – Vice President JD Vance, October 2025

Four families of strangers, one child from each: those are my grandparents. You wouldn’t know them; they never had a podcast. They weren’t perfect but they weren’t fascists. And when the flood came, they didn’t drink it, but they also didn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Decades before I was born, they quietly moved their strange families to higher ground. Some had skin so light no border could weigh them down. Others… had to be creative. Decades after I was born, I run out of words. Racist, bootlicking, bullies. All true, all insufficient. And when the discourse of the powerful is “reasonable” on one side and “acceptable” on the other…

Let your heart be a whistle. Not perfect or focus-group tested; just loud. A language that connects us across language. A song. A promise: we strangers will protect each other. We strangers will throw on boots and gloves and run outside when we see a car spinning its wheels in ice, because we don’t need to have the same word for push to push.

We strangers who have nothing in common… except that we love our children, that we love good food and spring days off work, that we come from somewhere, that we did not burst fully formed from the marble white skull of America—we speak potluck. We speak red card. We speak handshake, shovel, this flurry of whistles: a warning… for our neighbors, but also for those who would bring us harm: They expect us to be quiet… because they would be. They expect us to be scared of our neighbors because they are cowards.

But we strangers know courage. We know: there is no language more unreasonable, more unacceptable than the truth. And we know: the truth does not just live in our minds; it is moved by our lungs, a physical act, an offering, a push, a reminder: that in the right moment, something very small can bring something very large to its knees. For every quote/unquote family of strangers…

Welcome. Make yourself at home. Make yourself a home, here. Did you know that remembering the past and imagining the future light up the same network in our brains? My grandparents (whether by blood or bibliography) taught me to remember where I come from. My grandchildren (whether by blood or water rippling) teach me to remember where I stand.

DISCOURSE (Let Your Heart Be a Whistle) – 2025 Draft

By Kyle Tran Myhre

And the stand up comedian laments: Everyone is so sensitive these days. You can’t say anything any more.

Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem announces that she wants to ban visitors from every damn country that’s been flooding our nation with killers, leeches, and entitlement junkies.

And the editorial board laments: College students have a right to protest, but must be held accountable for their divisive rhetoric.

MN representative (and Majority Whip of the US House) Tom Emmer lies, stating that 80% of the crimes being committed in the Twin Cities and Minnesota are being committed by Somalis.

And the public intellectual laments: People are getting cancelled for the most trivial things these days. Careers are being destroyed over nothing.

The president of the United States rants: Ilhan Omar is garbage. Her friends are garbage. These aren’t people that work… They come from hell & do nothing but bitch. We don’t want them. Let them go back to where they came from.

And the celebrity laments: I hate politics. I don’t believe in either side, because if you’re on either side, you’re supporting division.

Vice President JD Vance says: It is totally reasonable and acceptable for American citizens to look at their next-door neighbors and say, “I want to live next to people who I have something in common with; I don’t want to live next to four families of strangers.“

And the poet laments…

Four families of strangers, one child from each: I call that my grandparents.
You wouldn’t know them; they never had a podcast. They weren’t perfect but
they weren’t fascists. And when the flood came, they didn’t drink it, but they

also didn’t pretend it wasn’t there. Decades before I was born, they quietly
moved their strange families to higher ground. Some had skin so light no
border could weigh them down. Others… had to be creative. Decades after

I was born, I run out of words. Racist, bootlicking bullies and cowards. All true,
all insufficient. And when the discourse of the powerful is evil on one side and
indifference on the other, let your heart be a whistle. Loud, piercing, taking

up as much space as possible, a reminder that the call is not to say something
perfect; it is to make noise. A reminder that there is no language more divisive
than the truth. A reminder that in the right moment, something very small

can bring something very large to its knees. For every quote/unquote family
of strangers…Welcome. Make yourself at home. Make yourself a home, here.
Did you know that remembering the past and imagining the future light up

the same network in our brains? My grandparents (whether by blood or
bibliography) taught me to remember where I come from. My grandchildren
(whether by blood or water rippling) teach me to remember where I stand.

A photo of four objects: a “form a crowd, stay loud, protect each other” zine, plus a whistle on a necklace chain, plus a button that says “no person is illegal,” plus a “red card” (a know-your-rights resource).