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Their hands raise with ours and for a moment we are all standing in perfect unity, every set of fingers curled in anger and defiance - and then they throw the tear gas.

Which is rich,
Because how many women have wept,
Sliding down their walls to their bedroom floor,
To their kitchen tiles,
To the post office pavement?

How many women have sobbed,
Clutching their daughter's body,
Trying to collect all of the broken pieces back into one person again,
The mother's tears, all of the nation's tears, spilling and seeping into the cracks of her skin
- how many more need to cry?

How much deeper does the blood have to scar the inside of her thighs,
Embed itself in newspaper ink,
Puddle and clot in the streets,
For you to see how the country is drowning?
How the river laps at our feet, our knees, up to her bruised wrists
Do you see your own fingertips dripping,
Or how his teeth are stained pink,
The iron on his breath a blunt tool he uses to deepen the crevices long carved into her?

No, of course, you do.
So what do you do about it?
Do you try to press your hands to the wound?
Hand him a life-sentence?
Or do you hand him a baton?
A badge?

Perhaps a can of teargas?

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