If you crinkle your peacoat between it’s silvering buttons -- the spine will crack and you’ll be left breathless.
If a
gas mask gets caught between the cement and your flesh -- the skin will melt
and you’ll be left a martyr.
If you stand
in the rain, drizzling or pounding on those protective plastics wavering in the
air -- you will know what it is to be drenched in something stronger than
slaughter.
A soup line
stretching for centuries -- we stepped backwards, we didn’t know,
we started
movements, unarmed, still, that doesn’t seem to matter these days.
What matters
is your color, but as long as it’s white it won’t mix with anyone else.
The way men's money moves -- the daughters whose fathers have voted for a man who can
laugh at the word pussy but have it confined to a locker.
Hangers hung
out to dry on clothes racks on Sunday morning, Mama didn’t believe it was right
for the world, the people who are women do not get to choose what goes on in
their bodies.
They get to
do the blood themselves, then.
There gets
to be a lot of blood, then.
By Breia Gore
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ReplyDeleteyour poetry is always a good read because it's never surface level. love that first line
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