Maureen Thorson

Red Dawn


Welcome
to digital cinema.
The helmets
are to protect you

from splatter,
generated
whenever
women connect

in the world.
They
come home
like a fist—

that thud,
displacement
of brute flesh,
recursively

deleting
empty directories,
having
a hell

of a time.
In this scene,
the United States
is affected

by corporate
sneakiness,
iguanas
lackadaisically

checking
their facebook
messages,
indistinguishable

from the other
middle management.
O Ladies
of the World,

virtual
warriors
in scarlet clad,
will you be co-opted

or leave your mark—
an angry scar,
oozing web
of nesting veins—

on the pale brow
of so-called meritocracy?
I would see it,
yes, not as prophecy

but moving picture.
Move me, then,
with your camera's flash,
algal bloom

in time lapse—
a viral reproduction
that turns
theaters to ash.

 

 

 
 

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