A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
There will be gunfire and its attendant regret. Police in their riot gear. Riots. There will be strawberries and hand grenades and the feeling in my belly when your touch explodes me. There will be hope and this life: its burial ground. A God who cleans His ass with us but sends dawn like a greeting card each morning. There will be doorknobs and ropes looped around them. Necks and people who ask for it to be over. Hunger and cancer and boots on the ground. Women split by babies forced into their wombs like bayonets into the bellies of soldiers. Viruses will go on detonating inside us while the morning glory overtakes the verbascum and opens its purple throats to the day.
Copyright 2020 Francesca Bell