By Denni Turp
after Hannah Silva
Democracy, Democracy, she’s wandered
homeless has Democracy, shivered in cave
openings and at zipped-shut tent flaps,
tall shuttered buildings where Democracy,
she’s barred, shut out, Democracy, despite
her name, Democracy, on flags and posters,
banners waved, Democracy, Democracy
the shout.
Democracy, Democracy, she’s knocked
on doors, Democracy, as if each change
of power or new election anywhere might
let her in, Democracy, at last. Democracy,
maybe the Greeks gave birth to the idea
of her, Democracy, her name, Democracy,
then exiled her immediately, Democracy,
let her become, Democracy, Democracy,
a fading dream.
Democracy, she’s all rags and tatters now,
Democracy, retains so little hope, Democracy,
that she might find a home, warm clothes,
real welcome, invitation to a fire to sit by,
warm her bones, Democracy, a plate of food
to share, Democracy, Democracy, that she
is real, Democracy, Democracy, in practice
somewhere, anywhere.
Denni’s new book, Winding / Unwinding, is available here.
