England flags, Bermondsey. Commons image.
By Pauline Sewards
Here they come: the haters
swarming up lampposts
wearing big boy balaclavas and black hoodies
bouncing on the balls of their trainers
sizing it all up
strength in numbers
glutes
I can smell their sweat
feel their chubby knuckles digging in
glimpse their hard-boiled eyes.
Red and white used to lift my spirits;
candy canes
Meg and Jack of the White Stripes,
Xmas.
Now
Now
Now
Now
What do we want?
When do we want it?
I’m a hater too
I know I shouldn’t deal in stereotypes
but the Far Right brand themselves
.
Are these the men who call me madame and make my skin crawl?
Or darling, which I don’t mind so much although I should,
help me across the road
or out of my chair now that I’m an old duck
a crock of nanna?
Their shaven heads.
Back in a fraction of my lifetime they were blowing bubbles with baby lips.
Somebody’s sons.
Now they are spitting blame
onto my kind of humans
I am weak.
Scared of the power of my anger.
I want to tear apart these flags with my bare hands.
Or lob my small body
a hard stone gathering lethal momentum.
