a poem by Naomi Foyle
Everywhere, the revolution
nods off in the wings, misses its cue
and the long-scripted farce bangs another door
in the face of the people
Here, the people resist
each other, the television flattens
and expands against the wall
until it is the wall
and its cold grey plasma
seeps like damp into our lungs.
There, it is blood that rises
in the back of the throat
spills on the pavement
with the little girl’s mango juice
and as she cries, the revolution
jerks awake, not too late
to bring the house down.
Naomi Foyle is a British poet and performer. Find out more about Naomi and her work by clicking here.