A poem by Jessi Harrison

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 stopa body mid-fall. On the street, you learnthere are shadows meant for hiding,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 versus oppression fills the airlike dust in lungs. Heavy, and impossibleto breathe through. Anti-protesters walk backwardsto picket lines and claim progress is whoevershouts the loudest over quiet signs.They don’t notice the names on 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. Featured image by Louise Lyshøj on Unsplash