A Poem Waiting

This poem will not be

for everyone.

Not everyone it’s for

will be ready to hear it.

But when despair takes you—

when the quiet hours

steal your breath,

and your heart screams

into the silence,

this poem will be waiting.

4:00 a.m.

November 6th—

We woke, skin damp,

tangled in fever,

knowing

this is not the first time

nor the last—

empire presses its weight

on our children.

They'd like you to forget

that not all your ancestors

bowed.

She rises again,

smeared in earth and blue woad,

standing bare

in the ruins,

paints her face

with blood running down her thighs.

And Nero,

in his golden house,

shudders—

his red cloak trembling,

as she screams.

4:00 a.m.,

November 6th—

we woke,

hearing it

together.

It wasn’t just death

thundering through your veins