Swinging

I stared at my reflection tonight.
I don’t avoid mirrors, but I by no means worship them, either.
But tonight I stared.
I looked myself in the eye and asked,
“So, what are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do,”
I whispered,
“when he starts off with your best friends?”
“What are you going to do,”
I shook,
“when he targets your loved ones?”
“What are you going to do,”
I shouted,
“when he harms strangers you’ve never met?”
“What are you going to do,”
I asked,
“when he points the trigger at you?”

I stared at my reflection—
at the ghosts of the women before me,
at the “deviants” of the past,
at the people of color just trying to survive,
at the disabled
handicapped
incomplete
malformed
monstrous children
of by-gone decades, years, months, days.

I stared at my reflection tonight
and asked,
“So, what are you going to do?”
My reflection met my gaze
and a voice from the depths
of my despair replied,
“Fight like hell.”

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