My Hands the Hard Knives of History
by @ilanalind
My rage is small and quiet and hiding
She doesnt know how to be out loud
She is exhausted, sweated out
A child banished to the basement
She has been made to feel worth nothing
My rage doesn’t know how
to SHOUT SEETHE SMACK SOIL
and REND ROAR RIVER RISE
Become a nature force
Inevitable and true
A wind a fire a flood
I dream sometimes of the hard knives of history
pinning the politician and his henchpeople
right through the wrists
with their hands up don’t shoot
with their liquid assets and piss running down their shoes
Those thieves of childhoods
Those betrayers of hope
Brazen flim-flammers flapping their lips
Those hard-eyed liars who force us to swallow
the spoon without the medicine
They have stolen our medicine
and so unctuously tried to sell it back
I should not dream now
I should become the dream
I should fasten my boots
and walk outside together
with my sisters and brothers
I should follow the wisest children
I should make my hands and voice
the hard knives of history
I should rend roar rise like a river
Shout seethe smack and soil
Their white collars
With their own blubbering spit
I have a quiet rage
She is singeing me softly within
My dear anger ember
asking to be released though I don’t know how
so she may lash hands with her sisters and brothers
Become a nature force
Inevitable and true
A wind a fire a flood