The woman at the meeting wants to know
about representation: where her ideas went,
why her name isn’t listed
as a volunteer.
The room grows quiet as her voice
deepens in timbre, rises
in pitch and complaint— The body
of documents we assemble
through the hours
fills binders lined up on the shelves.
Outside, in their inside,
insects build their own structures:
walls woven of their tongues’
and bodies’ excretions,
tunnels lined with bits of hair.
Every now and then we find
a cell abandoned, its hinges
torn asunder in the wind.


In response to Via Negativa: Evergreens.

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