This Magnetic Moment

On the blue screen in the waiting room,

a well-dressed Woman of Color

explains why 

the pale man trying to build

a wall (which specifically blocks

mothers clutching their babies

fleeing certain death from

reaching the American Dream

to which all resources flow)

is not racist.  She repeats this

belligerent, interrupting

the Token Liberal.  Oblivious to

traditional migration paths, she sees

the nation as an estate

in a gated community.  And though

she insists that climate change

is not real, science isn’t, either,

what a strange coincidence that

just as people’s desperation is warming,

only a solid barrier will do,

a fierce military force

patrolling, an eye in the sky.

The elite gamble in the Treasure Room,

betting billions

of lives

for a profit

or a loss,

the game of control

all that matters.  They’ll send a driver

with a gift to this guest

who did her best to sweeten

the message. 

Ante up.

They’re laughing

over foul cigars

at our distraction; lost

as we puzzle over this dissonance.

And I sigh,

embracing even this 

callous greed

because the way is blocked.

Resistance is worse than futile,

it keeps us on the treadmill.

We run from

the terror of our own traumas,

and those ancestral casualties

of wars too brutal

to bear, and so passed on,

passed on, all the children

running, tripping over what is in front

of them, their terrified gazes

firmly fixed on what lurks

behind.  What does it take

to wake

and shake off the dream?

We are magnets, attached

to our illusions.

How can I see you

with my hematite eyes?

Pulled, helpless

until I realize

the power is us

when we relax

allowing

what is.

 

Inspired by: Belligerent, Gift, Driver, Build, and Estate.

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Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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