In eighth period no students rest their heads on their desks today. They are afraid that the moment they look away, they will turn back to find they’re not people anymore.
As for us, we had a voice at least. We had a dream of being the teachers with the same last name, the English teacher with the periodic table on the wall, and her wife who teaches monomers like they were grass’s leaves. Is that a complexity you can understand?
You can repeal our hope of exchanging rings— our feathered thing— but we will still converge on the ninth graders of your nation to be sure your face has not tinted them with your fear. There will be no redshift here, only a drift of progress. There we’ll be, stationed in the inspiration of youth to undo your unfathomable bigotry.