This hopeless intermission demands
rearranged tradition, a revived approach fueled both
by merited rage and reproach, yet guided by hope.

These last few months 
What a tease, a pause for promise, applause, then rawness.
What a difference made in the span of a mere sundown.
Morally deficient, ruthless claws 
enclosed our cause in an iron maiden,
a white-knuckled grip of racist hatred. 

I’m looking at us, white women. 
# NotAllMen, well, far too many. 

The forced necropolis of our hopes and intentions 
mustn’t be abandoned, but tended, revisited.
But first, mourn. 
For now, life support will suffice
to urge a resurgence of blood and not the spilling of it.
We demand a refill of our collective, connected veins, 
for what seems lost remains,
what has been stolen will be reclaimed. 

That is not to displace blame or say
we aren’t complicit in death.
That is not to wash away our
history, even today in the making, 
of war
of genocide
of emboldened white supremacy
of gun worship
of our lackadaisical disregard for our dying planet . . . 

And yet, this hopeless intermission demands an exhale.
Reclaim your position, restate your mission. 
Hand on broken heart, 
I pledge to heal lesions ripped open repeatedly.
True humanity is blind to defeat. 

Take a pause for softness. 
The pads of our paws endure more than our claws, in the long run. 
To be gentle requires strength and patience amidst a surge of pain and rage. 
Have the nerve, the agency to rearrange your place in this. 


November 6, 2024