They said: ‘Will you eat your food?’ And – when I said, ‘No,’ – ‘ Then we have only one alternative – to feed by force.’” — Sylvia Pankhurst, woman suffragist of the 1920s
They are here.
I stand, back to the wall,
my jaw locked secure as the door to my cell
bruises blooming across my face
like sickly dandelions in drought-struck summer.
It’s the same every time.
Eggs, brandy, and milk.
Six officers tie me down
an unruly calf
Doctors file in next,
steel gag in tow.
Our cries for freedom
have revealed the breadth
of our chains.
My jaw is winched open
till bone creaks like spring ice
and flesh turns blue-black;
I call
I call for dogs,
I call for God
I call for end
I call for anyone
I call for freedom.
My answer
as thick rubber snakes down my throat
and my stomach, lone ally, rebels
my answer seeps the chasms
red, strained corners
of our jailers’ eyes.
I have no power
My ‘No’ means nothing
This horror, unveiled,
is all that binds us
weep for me, jailers mine
cry for freedom.