The Trouble With Prophets
by Karen Thorpe

Of course we are all paralyzed:
we knew that from the start; we heard
the spine snap but thought only:
  I have not broken far enough,
  I have not freed that other electricity
  of Your Voice burning up my spinal cord.

But even if we were silent, we are doomed.
Someone is bound to recognize us as
renegade spies in a crowd of sheep.
  Your papers, Sir.
  The firing squad at noon, the noose
  at dawn.  Any last requests?

We would ask for a line—just a scrap—
of Your Word.  No one ever said
that we were smart. Just stubborn.

 Of course we are all in hiding,
wrapping duct tape around our mouths to prevent
that one impending scream:
  the one that has built in dreams
  where faceless men will break us down into
  unrecognizable shapes if we call out truth.
But that scream defies us,
even if only at the bottom layer of our skins,
the one closest to ground zero bone.
  It is not the sound that weakens
  our knees; it is the Message, the
  critical mass building under our tongues.

The premonition that if we do not
whisper, if we do not sing Your songs,
someday we will stand in a bus station

and erupt.

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