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I am wrestling with despair

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Every day is worse than the one before
a killing of all that was legislated
to be kind, helpful, healthy for all
living creatures, prisoners of this earth.
The meanness of it gets me, the hatred
of who have less money and things
and thus count less and should be
punished or simply pushed into some
locked closet of poverty and forgotten
except for occasional rhetoric blaming
them for the state of that closet. How
do these men stand being so cold
and full of malice? They have plenty
left to flog women for having bodies.
How dare women desire, how dare
we choose, say no, resist, insist.
I can’t give up, no matter how cozy
that looks by contrast with all this
jabbering, this attempt to organize
our anger into some kind of weapon.

Marge Piercy is the author of many books of poetry, most recently Made in Detroit.
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