Tyrants tell you stories about
how much your worth is work—
I might have gotten that mixed up,
or maybe not. I'm quite sure
either way, that I am made of no cure
for late-stage capitalism. I can only insure
you against yourself, and homophobia, and a very long tenure
of waiting on an ideal that will never come, or endure
the tyranny of daring. A life not assured
by anything, except a sense that fear
is pronounced with a slightly more forward sound, like so—here—
EVERYTHING YOU HOLD TIGHT AND DEAR
will always be
FOR SALE, FOR EVERY SINGLE YEAR
of yours, and my lives.
Whichever comes first.
Whichever happens to quench your thirst
for more time away from
death, from dream
and that naked, wretched desire.
(My husband says a picture of Angela Davis also goes here.)
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