Words aren’t swords, or bombs,
gunpowder, guns, dragons.
Not a scaffold with a waiting noose.
Words aren’t religion, airplanes,
torn-out panic buttons,
flagpoles or fire extinguishers.
Not a zip tie. Not a wick.
Just the flame.
*
Two by two
they crawl through broken glass.
Just one bullet, roses blooming
from the hole in one white throat.
*
Single-file when they see
the velvet ropes, some instinct
or manners drives them to obedience,
gives the prey essential
seconds to escape.
*
What would they have done
to the young Latina
who dominated news
and rage-fuelled fantasies?
*
Praise to the officers, outnumbered and battered.
Praise to the clerk who thought to grab the votes.
Praise to the selfie-posting killers’ desire for fame.
*
Woman with a Don’t Tread on Me banner
trampled to death.
Rioter tasered himself in the groin.
The fur-clad people aren’t cosplayers,
my daughter explains.
That’s live-action role play.
*
Blood and feces scrubbed away.
Already the story’s changing.
Lies buzz around the aftermath.
The horned one eats organic food in jail.