By Ella B. Winters
Dear neighbour,
You whitewashed the street
and smeared it with a bloody
cross. Your celebration bunting
turned a noose, squeezing
the breath
out of me.
I am not scared to step outside
yet. I am also whitewashed.
Dear neighbour,
Long before the red cross
was a sign of succour,
it was painted on thresholds
to warn others
of plague.
There’s such irony
in waving a white cloth
while chanting ‘no surrender’,
flying a union flag to promote
division.
Dear neighbour,
You say: not like you.
But I see my reflection
in every dreadful eye.
Rage holds me
by the nape, a lion
carrying its young,
teeth drawing
blood, and it is red
just like any blood
that ever spilled.
