To the Protestor at the Pride Parade
by Andrew Kozma
Your idea of Heaven is a small nut no one can crack.
A nut too long on the ground boasts a waste of meat.
Meat rotting wherever it was laid to rest gives birth,
at last, to a gross of worms, all proving to be some use.
I want to remember you as tattered in voice and cloth,
your teeth yellowed stones, your eyes starfished with blood.
But you hold everyone else inside your inchoate anger.
I stepped far around you, as though you were catching
thoughts I hadn’t yet begun to think, but I’d be blamed for
all the same. The air fogged with beads and condoms. A man
shouldered a wheeled cross while another danced by, floating
like an angel, nearly nude, earthbound and rude with sex.
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