Who counts the transactions of us?
Toil for age, soil and death, love
or else gender,
intersexed, taxed or else bordered.
Our blood is a ballot, scabbed like water,
we are potable enough to be assassinated.
We haven't loved enough to name your crime.

We are all suspect
since we could see our own eyes,
known we aren’t for knowing,
and we see murder there, but you
have questions
Why

not panic?
Your free words like commensurate,
dangers like gratitude
disagree with death on
the color of oppressions,
exchanging mouths with hunger
you spoke our stolen years,
how queer, this late,
to ask for notice.

05/04/2021

Posted on 05/04/2021
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen