It's Still Life

Two Protesting Quadrilles

I.
she is one among a hundred
sandaled feet,
leather slapping
late-August streets.

heat rises
to regimented metre,
chanting voices,
summer-tanned skin.

the street becomes
a wilderness of protest,
placards ticking,
senses wired
to explosion.

police draw a line.
skin presses skin.

panic
crosses it.

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II.
she came with sandals,
August skin,
a placard.
nothing more.

then protest found
its marching metre:

slap of leather,
chant and answer,
heat rising
from a hundred bodies.

police locked arms.
the crowd moved closer.

somewhere between
breath and breath,

fear
set in.

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