By Olivia Somes
Beat a dead horse, beat her loud and proud
on Sunday morning in front of a pancake house,
because sometimes the only thing better
than syrup-slopped buttery hotcakes is a
diversion from the expected, the resurfacing cage
and haven’t the yokels of history class figured out
it’s more about the beating than the horse,
it’s more about the hair-pulling, the sore throat
in the morning after sloshing on theory all night.
It’s immunity. It’s pain battling exposure to more pain.
Cranking the lever of vernacular warriorism is how
we learn to bold our words, to not scratch out our eyes
over the opening of a mouth, to realize our voice boxes
are not kumquats and can handle the pressure
of an audience with rifles and eardrums
waiting for their turns to say what must be said.