November 20th, 2016

We sip fair trade coffee 
From the Good China
At somebody's sister's house,
Cradling the saucers between
Fingers decorated with
Artisan jewelry 
Perched on couches that cost more
Than my used car, at least,
And I make a joke about how my mother
Finally gave me the wedding crystal 
Because she realized I'd never get married,
I notice nobody asks 
How my poor immigrant family
Ever came to have things like 
wedding crystal,
While at the very same time,
780 miles away, 
There are peaceful citizens with
Bare hands
In twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit 
Being soaked through with water and
Shot with rubber bullets
Like the clay ducks
At that shooting range I used to frequent
In Tennessee

And I think of all the things I would shoot point blank, and the
List is very short: Things that are trying to kill me and things that are rabid and things that are already near death and ought not suffer any longer

I wonder which law was it
That law enforcement 
Was enforcing,
Was it the law that allows corporations 
To continue drilling private property
Because they can afford the fines?
The one where it is acceptable
To launch stinger grenades 
At unarmed civilians?

Twenty-five degrees,
Hundreds of bodies drenched,
While the world is told it was because there were fires 
That needed putting out

And this must mean 
They were the fires
That we can all be fires
That we are dangerous enough
To turn infrastructure to ash,
That even here, 780 miles away, I am incendiary,
And this poem is a revolution,
An account of What We Are Made Of
And if that is true,
Each small voice is kindling,
And as the body count rises 
We are rising with it
We will set down our teacups, and strap on
Our good boots, the ones with the steel toes,
We will keep coming.

Watch us.

Watch us.

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