Do protests even work?

I don't know – do they? What would a protest “working” look like to you?

At the beginning of all this, I would judge people for “not doing enough.” I would judge myself for not doing enough.

But maybe “doing enough” is the capitalism speaking, and I've had enough of capitalism. I'm here to build the new world.

And the new world is inevitable.

See you there.

(Read this with a soundtrack.)

*****

I wrote this yesterday

In the new world
we will all speak much more softly

And the words we will say
will be much more gentle and kind
we will forget the vocabulary of violence
In the new world
I can hold you for as long as I want to

The evenings will be calm and hushed recollections:
"They said it was impossible," I will laugh as I say
"It was only impossible when our eyes were closed," you will say
"It was painful," I'll remind you
"Being born never isn't"
"You held me when I said I couldn't do it"


You will nod,
a flicker of darkness across your gaze,
you will reach for my hand
and hold it tightly

The way I held your hand
when we marched in the streets

How you held me with your voice,
the way it settled into your throat:
"That's so beautiful," you breathed with awe

And that winter,
the nights were long
longer than they've ever been

Huddled in the darkness
with our dreams no further than the hour
we held our breaths
I tried to stop myself from crying,
but my voice broke when I confessed,
"I can't do it"

And quietly — so they wouldn't hear us — you said,
"Stay with me just a little while longer"

I said I would,
but I didn't believe it

And now,
we still speak just as quietly
because the new world is not as loud as it used to be
we can hear each other clearly,
without shouting



After the marching
After the singing
After the screaming and the silver lightning crack of gunfire
After the children were torn away and buried,
their parents wailing
After the bodies were dropped into the sea
After the trials
After the anger and the rage and the anguished, gnashing grief

In the crucible of humanity
the new world poured out
and flowed hot and unforgiving
turning everything it touched to ash and feathers and bones and pearls and tiny little yellow flowers that grew and grew and grew

It seemed impossible
until it wasn't

"It's so beautiful," you will say
hushed under all its weight

Finally I will add,
"We must learn to never do this again"