By Lizzy Ioannidou
There’s a boot crushing his throat
barricading the air in my lungs and a fortified knee
is lodged against her ribs and a baton
cracks my skull and chemicals spiked
with death birth the cries of disintegrating life
and water cannons blast her eye out
and we shift in and out of consciousness,
at once disembodied and trapped
in our flesh of glass. Space constricts in the face
of those out for blood and our howls for a life
compete for transmission with batons
bashing against ballistic shields.
Your monopoly of violence.
Your monopoly of air.
The thing about the body is that it is an archive
and the thing about trauma is that it drills
an active volcano into the chest.