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
miss the stagger in my walk
Beaufort’s notice now absent.
The leaves fall without cushion
hit ground that doesn’t differ
and lose themselves
under slackened feet
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
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
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