It: a Poem

I wanted to stay out of it,
Not have a word for it 
because I was taught to
keep politics behind closed 
doors. Don’t speak of it,
and respect others’ 
thoughts of it. Keep it
hidden like the big thing
under the rug. They fail 
to see yachts in it, or claim
“We’re better off because 
of it.” Yet, some fail to see
how history repeats itself,
how it dips itself into an S.
Add another S to it. 
They are painting 
villains of innocents 
with it.  Echoes of 
a wash with it, paid
with blood, gas, 
and skeletons. 
Apparently we fear 
monger with it 
while university
students, citizens,
and innocents are
put in handcuffs 
with it. There are 
villains in every saga, 
but there are those
who believe themselves
casting directors, and
paint everyone a Macbeth
when they fail to see
themselves becoming his
lady. Instead of the raven 
quoting “Nevermore” of 
a lost love, I wish it meant
nevermore of it.

I am tired 
of it because I’ve lost 
enough. “First they came …”
Do you know those words?
They came for the disabled.
They made lists of it. 
They lined up the teachers,
the professors, and made 
paintings of brain and blood
upon stone with it. 
That’s why my home
state wants to put
teachers in jail with it.
I want Orwell to become
pretend again. 


R.A. Bridges