Wool jacket fastened halfway up, buttons catching the light like June Bugs
Drawing close, he whispers like a branch, one leaf rubbing another
Home comes through in the ripples in the lake as the cool wind brings me back
Summer in Razliv with the founder, the radical, the will-be revolutionary
He speaks words like viscera laid across the battlefield just so
There’s peace within his stride, an acceptance of what must be done
I feel the crust of already dried blood on the edges of his soul
His latest chapter tells of subordination, of control, and I can feel it
From across the room, the thrust of his gaze as he deciphers my brow
The pressure of my minds building as I turn the page, handwritten Cyrillic
I would see with him the realities of revolution laid bare, if he would permit it
His control, my subordination
C.D. Sorrell is a writer and activist from Indianapolis and can be found on Twitter under the name @Real_MeatCastle.
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