When we thought
the earth was flat, science could be
a matter of opinion; the solar system
plotted as we know it a dangerous heresy.
We thought we evolved.
We thought we moved through
our darker ages, but the shadow seeps
over the edges of softened polar ice, less
planetary accusation and more
UN agenda to control consumption,
as if weather lies, as if dry summers
and flooding are rhetoric
to be argued. Debate truth
with a tornado and see who wins.
My money’s on the planet.
This is my government, she said,
in Texas, where they keep fences
electrified, tall, strung tight
to keep threat from cattle
and fear deep and shepherded.
Sometimes out of that hot mess
politicians stew like okra,
a voice reminds us
speech is still free.
Yes, speech is free.
Free to be spoken over
when it forgets it’s place,
takes off the high heels,
rubs away the lipstick and spits.
Free to be shouted down
when the truth gets uncomfortable,
and free to be gaveled and struck
from the record when it shifts
to the emperor’s new clothes
all over again and no-one
wants to be called out naked,
the pointing child duct-taped quiet
in a point of order.