All praise to she who stands,
arms like swords,
and calls an apocalypse
when she sees it,
and takes a stake
in what is needed.
All praise to she who takes a stand
with unbreakable flesh
and a heart like a wound
open to the turmoil of the world
and then she sings—
yeah, she sings
the wrath of the aftermath
of miscounted votes,
discontent spewing forth like oil,
like smog, like pepper spray,
the news so swiftly swept away.
Shattering the silence
that lies like a heavy tire
cast upon the road,
one woman refuses
to croak submission
into the microphone.
Across the crowd
her voice expands like blown glass,
a shield of light under the sparkling stars.
And if she cannot shake us
no one can.
And if she cannot break our apathy
no one can
except our wallets
calling us home
to the graveyards where our change is spent
so freely
as if money were water,
as if black gold were stone.


















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