Sliced Bread

The easiest way to breaksilence is with sirens. Lights cutting through blacknesslike bullets exiting guns. That slow, cocked reflex. That quick draw. That lackof regret. That dawn rising,masking any sense of mourning.  They say if you’re in trouble,screaming “Fire!” is more effectivethen “Help!” Apparently, there areenough hands to extinguish flames,but never enough to stop a body mid fall. On the street, you learnthere are shadows meant to hide behind, but more so, there are shadows built to avoid.   In a country assembled on eradicating persecution,the flags of bigotry line main street. An argumentover history vs. oppression fills the airlike dust in lungs. Heavy, and impossible to breathe through. Anti-protesters walk backwardsto picket lines and claim progress is whoevershouts loudest over quiet signs.  They don’t notice the names of the gravesthey trample over to scream their piece. They don’t give a second thought to the factthat the red carpet is a river of blood, runningover the blacktop like rain, suffocating shined shoes.