· Feminism,Trump,The Stay Project,Mexican border,border separation

My Dearest Loves. Dear Doves. Things are, have been, undone at the border. Like raspberries plucked from thorned branches in a bright backyard kept taught by a beautiful hive of undocumented Mexicans, the children are, have been, plucked from their parents. Pluck being too easy a verb.

I'll let you mow my lawn, I'll pick berries from the bush, I'll love you. But what (else) can I do to keep you safe? I am (almost) at a loss. Yet never quite.

I want to say: we are so fucked. But those words in my mouth are all wrong. We? I'm here by the raspberry bushes, a pressed cardboard carton in one hand, sweet pulp and fruit flies and the sun setting soon. A feast, a fuck, a fist in the other.

Send us something. Anything. We're here.

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