The present moment says: But what’s all this fuss about me?
I am an eight-year-old girl raped and killed in India by multiple men.
I am the waters off Europe where bodies are floating.
I am a tent-site along the border rupturing with the land-less.
I am the future marching for a right to live.
I am a man, 70 years of age, forced out on to the streets from a rented flat.
I am a man who kills to feed his family.
I am rubble holding in my bowels women and children dead from gas poisoning.
I am a nerve agent that crosses boundaries.
I am a woman without a driplet of milk for my newborn baby.
I am a school-girl raising the child fathered by my kidnapper.
I am a miniature grave. I am the death that stalks.
I am closed doors, walls, patrol guards.
I have dreamed of clean air, clean energy, ecological integrity.
I have dreamed of two-state solutions, co-existence, universalateralism.
I have dreamed of equality.
I am an unseen infiltration, a generation unreformed, deformed, disinformed.
I am a black woman, standing with other people of colour, on the roads of Missouri, Louisiana, Tennessee.
There is riot police, there is tear-gas, gun in my face.
I sit in the dust waiting for aid-trucks, grey, exhausted, listening.
I sit in the middle of these words, remorseless, watching myself,
as if at somebody else.