Categories
Poetry

Protest

By Melissa A. Chappell

Skin charred, my keychain thermometer

registered 102 degrees

in front of the Post Office,

whom I was defending

on this freedom-fired day.

.

My anti-Trump sign

filled like a sail in

the hot wind.

.

Most people weren’t looking.

.

I hadn’t done anything for the children.

.

I hadn’t done anything for the refugees.

.

I wondered if anyone could see

the shame smeared on my brow.

.

And yet I continued

and continued

and continued

.

A mail sorter was just removed.

.

Someone’s overtime got cut.

.

Tonight a blue postal box will

disappear into the darkness.

.

And all of this will be dust.

.

Down by the Enoree

there’s a train bound

for redemption.

.

I’m the outlaw

whose robbing it.

.

 As for America,

if we must steal the next sunrise

from a madman,

then storm the house of alabaster,

and flee away into the night

with all the stolen light we can carry.

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Melissa A. Chappell is a native of South Carolina living on land passed down through her family for over 120 years. She is greatly inspired by the land and music. She plays several instruments, among them an 8 course Renaissance lute. She shares her life with her family and two miniature schnauzers. She recently published Dreams in Isolation: The World in Shadow: Poems of Reconciliation and Hope with Alien Buddha Press.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

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Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author.

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