I will spite
the spite of empire.
I will spit
into the mouth
of the executioner
and walk away
untouched.
I will return
to the desk
and write of it.
I will write
of it until
a woman screaming
is not revised
into
a woman singing
I will write
of it until
your we can carry
our we
and, together, we realize:
Life is not a poem.
YOU ARE READING
THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR
PoetryAt birth, we are all sentenced to life- to live. Highest Rankings: #4 in poembook #4 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2024
