If three thousand kittens
drowned in a hurricane;
if some nut
shot up a pet store,
bullets pierced puppies,
tropical fish gasped in shards and puddles;
if, colorless,
behind bars,
butterflies suffocated in iron cages
there would be weeping
there would be anguish
there would be motherless rage
Change the labels,
say blonde, paraplegic, extra-terrestrial,
Protestant, instead.
The refugees of Jupiter,
a Methodist terrorist.
How does it feel now?
If you dreamed
hard enough
to cross purgatory
to hope for tomorrow
in heaven
To flee
The dread of shattered night
screams, blood, deadly fear,
chasing you running,
running, running
somewhere, nowhere, anywhere
far from here.
But the welcome mat is a trapdoor
and now, rising from a whisper,
poetry is protest
once again.