The skin of resistance

The air is the texture of rebellion. The sun smells of
afterbirth. Cries for freedom knock on the horizon,

over and over like hammer-song. This resurrection
demands its price β€” bones and blood and an endless

river with neither face nor limb. You write without
words or ink. Metaphors flatten. The sky wants to

eviscerate language. When you write about people,
their souls disappear into the spaces between lines.

When you write about souls, death watches, already
a period at the end of an inert sentence. When you

write about death, freedom holds your wrist, asking
if you dare voice the truth. Truth is the rough skin of

resistance. When you write about resistance, truth
is already mouthing your poems from street corners.

18 thoughts on “The skin of resistance

  1. Pay attention to those street-corner poets. They know what’s what, even when we who labor with our pens do not. Best wishes for 2020 (’cause we’re all gonna need something better than what we have)!

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  2. Wonderful, Rajani. So on point. Your metaphors, far from flat, wake your reader’s attention from the start. I love the progression of the last half of the poem, especially, “When you write about death, freedom holds your wrist, asking if you dare voice the truth.” I think this is so often either the stumbling block or the point of no return.

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  3. You’ve expressed some of the beauty and challenge in creating resistance pieces. It is no easy feat to capture the soul of a movement, but when the right words are found, it’s powerful stuff.

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