Poetry (not) Politics
No idea what you’ve handed me, nouns written in absentia
another over-wordy prose tirade, pastel ideas
past sell-by dates from people whose idea of grief
omits the blood from ears and nose, because it
might cause strong offence: not real, we’ll just pretend.
So tired, assumptive reasoning somehow rewrites
effective hold of trauma scored in skin, tattooed abuse;
never again will moments dawn in light, grasping
somebody else’s stanza’s bright, because it’s metaphor
never supposed as anything but mirror, their desires.
Now you, stuck here within my prison of anxiety, might yet
begin to grasp true terror of complexity: what lies beneath
difference defined by other people’s ignorance, time to destroy
control bursts from within, two meters brain to heart,
these terrified, traumatic moments fracture, rip apart.
Why not refuse to live in class or race, rejecting
any part in bigotry, replacing lifetime’s worth of pointless
adjectives for fair, diverse, all true: explain then how I
justify to you, whose idea of perfection’s strictly gendered, white:
fair means by which we all, together, set this world to rights.
Wolfpack Contributor: S Reeson
Famous Blue Metaphor by S. Reeson for “Before I Turn Into Gold” Online Leonard Cohen Anthology
Fevers of the Mind 