Mid-Protest Thoughts


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


2 comments

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  2. your poetry is always a good read because it's never surface level. love that first line

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