A Lamentation of the Plundered

We have our own grief.
A stone setting quietly between our lungs,
something cold that never goes away.
We are intruded upon.
And dismissed.
Less than you.
This is our own source of mourning.

There is no denying the way you see us.
You pretend we are equals,
a low and tasteless joke. We hear you
when you think our ears are too far away.
We see the assault of your eyes.
We smell the sweat and anger on you.
Taste our own fear.
We feel you when your hands touch whatever they want.
And other parts of you.

The rape of millions,
without recompense. Prayers of the faithful,
stifled and bitten through.
It seems a bit much, and it would be,
if we were one of you.
But you have made this clear;
none of us are.
This is the weight inside us.
You put this here.

Anger is passed from one to the other,
output to input,
a rampant disease.
And we are left with the causatum
of something for which we have no fault.

No violation of dress code.
No inappropriate looks.
No singing of songs, or dancing for
(joy)money/fun - or even for you.
No past mistakes.
These are not the reason,
these are not enough.

We had the gall
to be.


And that is our private
and unending
sorrow.