It was the year of weird food and devastation.
The dancehalls were torched, poets kicked apart,
verses left to bleed out in the bushes.
Beth Couture & Renée E. D’Aoust
This isn't how it should be. And I'll fight for how it should be, for how it will one day be. Because there's no other choice. Right now I'm grieving, and I feel there's no other choice but that either. I'm so grateful you're with me in the fighting, in the grieving.
My love and I sing a dual song,
Three dits, three dahs, three dits
Into the space where sky and water meet
Or to one another in the brush, our cupped nest.