Televised
we are all in one room, drinking
cocktails mixed with legacy brand
liquors. we don’t notice. we forget
that companies are responsible
for our vodka, for our water, for
our lights and for our roads, we forget
but we remember, too. we talk
about our reading lists, a girl is
reading Agua Viva, she says
Lispector had a way to see
around the bend of time, she hits
a vape beneath a sky that glows
the bronze of fresh-stripped wire.
soon a Beyoncé song comes on inside
the purple bar, which nudges us
to bitch about the ethics of our billionaires,
and then to dance. we run the world.
we are also the resistance. we sew
red patches with thread from Jo-Ann Fabrics.
thanks, Jo-Ann. we love you Jo-Ann.
we love you Tito. we love you
Ralph Lauren. we love you
and we are never going to be
quiet, you’ll never hear our voices
fall silent. we are plotting
your demise, we are architecting
better worlds, we are watching
how you scissor us in half.
we are young but we will live
beyond you. we grip our city
with arms and hands made fast
by all your evil tools. we are posting this
to TikTok so the Chinese government knows
that we are hot and young and slutty
in our artificial cages, in our handcuffs,
in our straps. we need the spies
to learn about femdom and
the Wednesday Dance. we know,
we know—this could threaten everything
that makes this country great, our security
could be at risk, but we don’t care. we don’t believe
in borders or in anything. you have taken that
from us, belief. and you only have
yourselves to blame. we are all
in one room and we are angry,
we are vicious, we are tired, we are
trying to find a way home. we are all in
one room, and the room is everywhere
in distance of a cell tower, everywhere
our ankle monitors can beep. we can’t
get out and we’re becoming feral, we are starving,
we’re exhausted, we are pretty, we are desperate,
we are entertained, we’re young and we are dangerous,
we are all in one room. we know damn well
who put us here. and when we make it out,
teeth gnashing, eyes alight with fear
and hope, we’ll be like any uncaged thing:
we’ll kill before we go back in.
G.H. Plaag is a queer poet, writer, and musician originally hailing from Boston and various corners of the American South. They received their MFA from Hollins University, where they also taught, are an alumnus of Sundress Academy for the Arts, and have published work with Tahoma Literary Review, Winning Writers, The Hyacinth Review, The Winter Anthology, and poets.org, among others. Currently, they reside in New Orleans, where they are developing a novel in conversation with various structures of power along the Gulf Coast.
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