Fists on Fire: Poetry from the Heart of the Revolution

October 1

by Sarah Menefee

what is the light we wake to this October first?

are we awake?
did something change?

the machines are massing in the poorest of places

and terror's the word indeed

get on with your money it says

the blood that feeds it an oily black

don't wash a wound with blood it says
on the side of a bus shelter signed Rumi

late at night in the fog

on these dead streets

why so lonely all this life?

doesn't any one but the poorest of poor
appear to you? he asked

of course they do but these
have always been my North Star

an eye above
the lost streets

and deserts of war

and here he comes
the shining of his metal
crutches his pale
face

to him belongs the night


all cold long

cold cold our might

where is the sufic petal and its
black light?