Are the Republican Politicians Going to Hurt Us, Part One

Will they come with cold, proud eyes, And laws like winter in their hands? Will silence fall where once were cries— The laughter none but we understand? I saw the stars through a hospital pane, And wondered if they’d burn for me, Or if their fire would die in vain, In halls without our poetry. They call us strange, too loud, too still, Too much, too soft, too far from grace— But don’t they know the kind of will It takes to show our face? Our hearts are gardens, overgrown, With tangled thoughts and fading light; We don’t ask much—just to be known, And sheltered from the night. If laws are made to bruise and bind, Then let them know: we see, we feel— And even in our silent minds, We dream, and bleed, and heal. The moon still sings to broken things, And we are listening.