Echoes of Resistance

Touch like taradiddles. The vibrating drum. Extemporaneous resonance. Elongates the synapse. Stretches the memory too taut. It's options. Snap back or break. But choice is one of those ubiquitous mythologies that seldom pans out.

The butcher with his blade. Dismantles the whole mess. Cutting up crayons. But all the colors are already gone. Small fingers tickle the outlines. Still the light cannot be coaxed.

The drum beats. Soldiers in her ears. Raise their weapons. Velvet landmines hidden in her panties. Steal their victories over nothing. The bomb in her bra. Counts patiently. So much time between then and now. It all passes so unremarkably.

A bulb gone dark. In a room still brightly lit.