Snowballs are formed, then they hit. On impact they come apart and the pieces, so small, melt quickly.

Revolution’s lead-up is prickly, its result disappointing. And its body, painful and illogical in every step.

I feel at home where there is struggle.

I feel at home amongst the rough and the poor.

More,

I feel at home where people are discontent, unquiet, where the trees are not groomed, where the concrete is cracked and where one of the doors is always locked.

I feel at home where struggle is real. Where the people I see, asking for money, aren’t pretending to be in need.

Not a false mandate, channeled hate, or one-sided debate.

And our bodies: a statement of resistance in every step.

But change can be written and change can be bitten, making rabid what was written calm.

And our words: a statement of compliance in every space on the page.

What if I had resisted with every inch of my body?

What if I had permitted his hands to slide under my arms, to grasp my hot anger and drag me into holding? Holding my resistance in his gloved hands; Quieting my unsymmetrical demands.

Would the weather have cooled, the air frozen?

And my questions: a remark on the unclarity of every step.

They have held up pillars, stayed after they have been knocked down.