Scoundrel Time

Waiting for Them To March on Us

As we link arms (mine far
from steady) she tells me,
before sunrise every morning
her grandfather would gather twigs,
and slowly he would begin to spin
and as he spun, his arms would rise,
head lifting, back arching,
all spiraling up while he began
reaching down and as he
sank, gently he breathed
sparks into embers and
the sky would catch light
yes, she says
every morning is a fire and
a fire is not a tiki torch,
fire does not march
and fire does not spread
hate—she says, and fighting
for breath, I
see them.


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