thoughts after Anna
a poem reflecting on the consequences of censorship by Katie Gorrie
In the ever-flowing shifting history of wrongs,
the word, working slowly.
When to speak, so the words can fly while they fall, without being snatched from the air.
What does silencing do? A thought never stands alone. A thought has an endless root network.
The fear in power, the fear burning blue heat at the heart of power
The true word’s simplicity, the way it carries the future on its back
the seed of change, of recuperation,
The push back/ into some more liveable orbit,
the (never finished) remeasuring of scales
Recent history’s reveal of the space between us; the impermeable, mediated space– owned space.
The cold, calculated, business of the space between us.
The body knows we meet, that we pour into each other, liquid lives bubbling and smoothing, separate and one. The word’s angles pry our boxes open to this. And so silence maintains The Story of Unpassable Distance Between Us.
Censorship is a king in solitary confinement: power walling in its own fragility, willed destruction of the senses.
But I want to censor hate. To knock out its knees, to hear it beg for mercy and see its face run with the waters of repentance. Wait– who’s saying that.
The problem is impermeability- surrounding oneself in sameness, surrounding ideas in sameness, filling fields with sameness, filling heads and homes and streets with sameness. We can’t talk to each other.
We can’t see each other.
Silence, distance, refract the chasm, deepening the rift that was just difference.
Habits of privilege keep us rapunzeled.
Censorship, the cutting of tiny tendons, millions of tendons at a time. Pruning so much that the apple tree dies.
Of course there’s never been anything but limited information. But how costly, this thinking we see it all, have it all in view, start from neutral, start equal, hear what we need to hear, can trust the voices speaking. The limits of preference, killing us in real time. Seeing what we like. Seeing what we’ve already seen. Flipping through back issues, in a corner of a self-fulfilling waiting room.
Limited access to information means I sleep soundly at night in my washed sheets, black hole in my gut expanding. My world is constructed, is false-bottomed, and the hole is connection with the rest of the world– with the females trapped, the little lakes slowly poisoned, the oil being dragged from its slumber, the heifer mourning its calf, the police swelling with self-justification, the iceflow releasing ancient agonies.
Censorship fools itself into thinking that a cut cures a multitude of cries, ringing out like stars in the night.