This country is washing its hands in blood — there is no humor to be had in such affairs.
When man comes to blinding blow with man, each fist a hand striking the self again.
A match to burn through these dark days, a flame for the nights ahead.
A light to lead the way towards hope by pouring butane on books and bread.
When will we see what our hatred costs? Climate change: a ‘hoax’ and forest fires: go out.
Walls that go up must come down. We forget that smallpox blankets smother, stop short of keeping anyone warm.
For you: four years.
For me: straightjacket,
noose, electric chair.
________
Luna G. Reiley writes across hybrid non-fictive forms. Her work has been showcased by the DeYoung Museum and staged at Artists Television Access in addition to performances at St. Paul’s Church and Alder Manor. She is an MFA Writing candidate focusing on poetry at California College of the Arts in Oakland.
