THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 12

You’ll probably outlive me. Unless shot.
If things get bad, as very well they might
And we’re arrested on some foggy night
I will not last on Dartmoor. Feet will rot

joints creak I’ll catch the flu or fall asleep
and not wake up. This happens when you’re old.
Bad food, some brutal guard, or just the cold.
They’ll put me in a grave twelve inches deep.

And burn my poems. Keep them in your heart
where they belong. Admonitory advice
to learn, digest, remember. Once or twice
use them to teach. Yours is the harder part

suffer for years kept going by the hope
of seeing your tormentors choke on rope.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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