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 — 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.