Goldenrose

You vacuum the carpet in the same direction, 
straight lines like ribs, hoping to be noticed, 
hoping someone sees proof of you, 
the ghost of your hands pressed into the fibers. 

I will kneel on broken glass as 

my blood stains the pearly sheen so that 

you will see I've resorted to my last option: begging 

before you (as a woman should be) to rip 

Blind the jury. Blind the voters. 

Wrap white fabric over their eyes, stuff white cotton in their ears. Make them as blind and deaf as Justice herself. 

I knew it was bad
when you didn’t even have to say it,
when I saw it in your eyes,
when I knew it in the way you folded your arms
and turned away when I spoke.

They call us the lost generation, 

but how can we be lost when we see everything? 

We inherited the ruins, 

the sins of the past like notifications, 

the echoes of greed carved into policy,