In the morning it will be 1549
If you wake up and the rebellion is over, maybe we shouldn't say a prayer. If you wake up and jump and yell, it may be the rebellion is long since done. If that happens to the girls in boots, maybe we shouldn't say we told them so.
There are faces in the spaces where before it was clear and washed when the rebellion which is now over was only then birthing. We are now banned. Them and you and us and the girls in their boots with their hair parted in halves. If you wake up now, you can put a stop to all this touching and feeling.
He is there. Back facing me. Body fragile. I look at it, at his back. Run fingernails up. Down. See evidence of pain where now there is none. Or little but not flaring. Not now, but before. I lightly touch this place no one else has touched for a while. I feel happy. I feel empty. That makes me feel happy.
In the morning it is morning. Not before I've etched nail paths into this body that isn't mine. I hate morning. Sunlight fills me up again. I am not happy. He's done with the touching. There's been too much touching. Pain may flare.
Pour us a drink, girls in boots. Don't say your prayers first. Just fill the glasses and we will empty them just to watch you fill them again. So that we don't wake up, now or ever and especially not when the rebellion was just beginning. Just lie here in protest together.
