On Holding My Tongue (Again)

Will there still be time for talking
When I am not afraid?
When my voice is no more meek or fraught
And my shame is unlade?

Will I still have breath for speaking
When worrying is past?
When I’m done fearing how I’m thought
Or how my thoughts are cast?

Will I still have words worth saying
When I worry not what’s said?
I suppose it really matters naught–
I shan’t speak when I’m dead.



Imagine if we could be
Maccabees and
knock down oppressive regimes with
guerilla warfare—
we could change the world from shadows and
make it safe for the people
who live in it the most.
Guerrilla troops can win because
this is their home, not yours, and you will fall,
and what if the ones who had to live with the laws
could make them?
I can’t carry a sword though and
pepper spray would make one hard to wield,
anyway. But we know these mountains made of
numbers and code and words and whispers
more than they do, so maybe
we can be Maccabees after all.