Poetry by Mercedes Dawsone

Art by Jazmyn Scott

This Wind You Talk Of is the start of a Shakespearean quote which ends “blows us from ourselves.” It was an exorcism of how I felt as an English UK resident woman. My partner stated, on the day of Trump’s election, “the only thing I care about is his foreign policy, the rest doesn’t affect me”, he could not understand why I would even be troubled. Trump’s win has regressed the women’s rights movement by decades and this leader who doesn’t see sexual assault as such, who disrespects women everywhere, is (by position and influence) giving the green light to the world to follow his lead.

 This Wind You Talk Of

I feel the winds of change dip

and miss their wizened whipping

against cheek

miss the stagger in my walk

Beaufort’s notice now absent.

The air

is

still.

The leaves fall without cushion

hit ground that doesn’t differ

and lose themselves

under slackened feet

heavier step.

Sound echoes,

bounces its impudence off walls

bounces its impotence off shut doors,

peals off unseen ceilings.

Land cut off from sky.

Voice cut off from limitless possibility.

All of a sudden change means something old

not new

something unchallenged

not revolted

something saddened by an about turn in time

to a month before the showers that bring flowers

those symbols of peace

to the hair of people that believed we could

and has set trends

for the comb-overs to come over

all brash and branded

with weapon

with ignorance

to say we cannot.

I feel tongue thickened in mouth

like words’ power has forgotten its cause

because a louder voice,

one no one heard grow

from whisper