where do we go to settle our debts once the rags have been
the rope of not-having-been
closes round our
necks? do we stare into an abyssed ball for futures? does the
weight of a grassblade
shake our weeded yet-to-comes?
if through this word is to flow
the unheeded burn of the other’s weight if through this word
is sifted the witch’s
soothe and her meaning, the
howl of burn & stitch of
war if through this word is stone my brother & river my stone
would the calm
of a paper heathen suppress care
suppress her hooded scream?
As I begin to familiarize myself with Silvia Federici’s work on reclaiming the commons and linking witch-hunting with the birth of capitalism, I attempt a playful weaving of some of her very powerful insights into verse.