Of women awake at night

We walk out

together,

holding the night’s arm,

after thirteen

library hours,

and talk of

revolution.

 

We talk of

sidewalks and street arts

and lethal ideas

that can burn

down these

scaffoldings

of life.

 

We profess-

“What use is

this engineered,

carefully measured

and accounted for

chemistry lab

kind of existence?”

 

We proclaim-

“Unwrap the candied

facets of life in

windowless cubicles

gourmet coffee shops

ferris wheel romance-

all reeking of weekend obsessions.”

 

We hear

together

drum beats

and horse hooves,

calling out

for us to join in,

fabled protesting.

 

“What are you protesting?”

she asks,

solidarity sisters,

we walk in

silence

as I think

hard.

 

We are comrades

dreaming of

revolutions and protests

for a new world order,

we are fearless

little women,

unsatisfied.

 

Her and I,

rogue, romantic and exotic,

in this suburban land,

where 2 am library plans

are not chronicles

for torn and broken

tubes and sacs.

 

Far away,

in a place I

call home

I can hear stories –

the ghosts

sorcery, prophecy

and the sin,

of women who are awake

at night.

 

Still here I am,

under Californian twilight sky,

biking on empty streets

sipping in on my

red blend

while ideating

on new-worlds.

 

Who is to blame

when the brew is easy

to consume

and the dollar

goes far enough,

for my pretty red shoes, blue bags

and cheap boyfriend jeans?

 

“I am

protesting

my selfishness

for a solidarity

misplaced”

I say.

**

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