58 (8 April 2025) Poem by d m

i held my breath till it whistled
like a kettle with a grudge0
the moon's face flickers—
too lemon to trust,
too god to look away from

(you see it too, don't you?)

the men in glass shoes
stomping on the grass
call it progress
& we clap like good teeth
like teeth that belong

i woke up with hands full of gravel
(my spine still replaying
that tuesday when
the news kissed me on the mouth
58 dead in Gaza
it tasted like iron)

i'm not built for this century
i was born on mute
but everyone's shouting
inside
their suits

someone's building
a new god
in the basement
of a pharmacy
—says it kills the fake
—says it's making the world great again

my chest is full of alarms
but they only go off
when i sit still

i tried to pray but
all the vowels were sold out
so i just hummed
till i forgot the tune
or the meaning
or the shape of
safe

(what was that again?)

don't look at me
i'm just another scarecrow
made of receipts
mouthing
please stop
in perfect
passive
silence