Buttons of Resistance
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| Kathryn Kyker |
Before I was a mom I knew—
You Can’t Hug Children With Nuclear Arms.
The simple lesson—
Violence Ends Where Love Begins—
lost to me in a marriage where the two
ran into each other and got hopelessly blurred.
A whale smirked Save The Humans—
a sweet delusion so we could forget—
that every creature would be happy to see us go.
(except maybe dogs)
A Good Planet Is Hard To Find, Don’t Dump Toxic Waste, and
Social Justice—almost an obligatory afterthought—
all packed away when new men came to power and
EVERYTHING
was going to change except it didn’t—
except me.
COEXIST, my lazy bumpersticker nod of compromise
to a status quo tangled by intolerance.
Recycle Yourself, a snarky keychain plea
for organ donation—
one of the last things I believed in.
But no peace activist could fail to rise again on January 2017
except…no, even the dead ones.
I wore a pin of Obama’s words on a hat made by a woman on a bus
from my hometown, with two shades of pink and tiny ears.
Of all the inspired expressions from that sea of women,
Princess Leia’s banner ruled:
her hair plastered in cinnamon-bun swirls, a tunic you can fight in, boots—because
you never know how long you’re going to be on your feet in a rebellion, or who
you might need to kick—and
a light saber to show the way—
A Woman’s Place Is In The Resistance
accept no exceptions:
Resist
giving up your power by making yourself small
Resist
surrendering choice quietly
Resist
the lull of fatigue, the luxury of distraction
And maybe
Despair Ends Where Hope Begins.
kk 6/2020
Waking Up To Ordinary People
Serve my real-life with a dollop of fantasy please,
Something sweet to cut the sharp tang of humanity’s worst—
Sugared fairy dust sprinkled or creamy clouds from the Shire stirred, dragon-like,
Diverting me far from ground zero, where I try and fail again and
again to grasp what man can do to man—for once glad
of the chauvinistic term, the semantics of guilt letting me off the hook.
I wish.
Drink before that dragon trails into the blackness—get your mouth around
some delicious fat of distraction, from the shadows, wet leaves that read
the cost of your tea, the peril of being an ordinary person on an ordinary day.
On one August 6th years ago, I stood before a small gathering and sang a song
my friend wrote and played on his guitar. I only recall bits of the melody,
how the names slid in on a whisper:
Hiroshima, Nagasaki.
Before I learned to keep the horror of what happens to
ordinary people an arms length away, crafted my
Amulet of exemption.
I am so far from that woman who stands up and sings solo at a peace gathering, an
Ordinary woman now brings the cup up to images of children at the surface.
Sip carefully—frail bodies, so easy to damage,
My lips; their faces, limbs, organs, skin
Wake up and smell whatever warmth you cradle—
Drink them in, knowing they too, wanted to rise, gently discharge
their phantoms of sleep to greet the day, sip their tea, and be
Ordinary people.
Poetry Communion
We who love poetry love
Words, the warm bread of them devoured, fresh
from the oven, torn and shared, washed
down with our common life
blood, but never sated, we lick
our lips for more.
We who love poetry love
Tools, the level of line, wrench
of rhyme, lave true
to form, nails of
impact, pliers pulling
off armor of indifference.
But I love poetry as
Creature, wild and unkempt, crafty
dancing with a dazzle of
distraction as it crawls inside
me sideways, curls to nest
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