How does it feel to be nineteen,
crying by a fence,
after men in church robes pelted you
with rocks?
Do you trust your neighbors did
this? Has your not-so-stable
planet turned to eggshells? Since
when is Cain Able?
And if you’re too stunned to pun, do
you feel the armor
attempted by your friend, shielding
you with all her
small bones? In your heart, in the
heart of violence,
do you know how fiercely she wants
to undo this?
Two Riot Police are waiting to arrest
you two at this
sanctioned rally. One Bronze
Policeman smacks
his lips, like catching catfish. Yet
can you see the shame,
the shock in the other’s face? It
is almost the same
new mourning as in yours... Minus
the glass shards
in your eyes. Now you say: I guess
they broke my glasses.
After a photo of Kirill Fyodorov by Dmitry Lovetsky, 2013
