I don’t know what hungry feels like anymore
or how to tell it from lonely
or even how to sing it away with a whistling kettle and a kitchen full of exhausting vegetables.

The revolution is in the twirl of a fork.

I don’t know what my voice sounds like anymore
or how its syllables and clicks make meaning
or even if I’ve anything to mean, if I’ve ever meant anything in the barrage of seed-pecking chooks.

The resistance is in the tongue against the teeth.

I don’t know what the world looks like anymore
or how to get back into it
or even how to tell if it’s still there, tossed by the wind and the waves in the windowframe.

The revolution is in the turn of the knob.

I don’t know how to move anymore
or how my legs could take me out
or even if there’s anywhere to go that’s less crippling than the bounds of my yard.

The resistance is in the push.


The revolution is in the turnaround, and it always comes from the resistance.

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