It’s not often Life feels remorse for his actions.
(For what is there to feel remorse for?
There is no wrong or right in his dealings, there’s only survival. Only the white knuckles from fighting and ruddy dirt smeared hands from work.)
The revolution is no exception.
Besides, there’s something about communism that harkens to the order of things. Spots and spaces perfectly cut for their pieces. Cogs and roles to be filled.
And what a spectre she has become. Pale hands, wringing for rations. Blonde hair–– bleached for fear of recognition, or perhaps shocked white from the horrors she’s faced?
He remembers the fire, the siege. Her dark little head. How well she survived, then, in the night. How well she survives, now, in the ration line. Call him proud, if you must.
He leans over her shoulder, peering in the room of her wool pocket. Extra bread. She knows how to live. He keeps his voice hush, lets it breathe against the hair on her neck, but he leaves it loud enough–– just to flirt with surrounding earshots.
Yesterday was BYP 100’s first ever National Day of Action for Black Women and Girls. #BYP100 leaders shared their demands for greater accountability of police violence towards females, and family members of #RekiaBoyd spoke about her 2012 fatal shooting by an off-duty police officer. Read more about the Rekia Boyd trial, and what it says about the fight for #police accountability at http://chicagoreporter.com/in-rekia-boyd-case-family-faces-a-familiar-outcome/