resist every day

Wearing a Star of David
should not be
an act of resistance.

Being a woman
should not be
an act of resistance.

Today it feels like it is.

And I am relatively safe.
I can pass as white,
as straight, as “them.”
I am not searched
at airports like
my ambiguously brown husband.
I run through
suburban streets when
visiting friends
and the police
don’t stop me
because I don’t
look like I’m from there.

Sometimes people talk
to me like I will share
their concerns
just because we share
a lack of melanin.

Unless they catch
that my last name
means my blood
trickled up from
across a border.

Unless they realize
that I could be
Anne Frank’s sister.

Unless I open my mouth
and tell them in
no uncertain terms
that they are wrong,
that I don’t agree,
that even if
I was not
Mexican, Jewish,
bisexual, a witch,
even if I was
blonde and apple-pie
American,
that I would still
never agree
with their hatred.
I would stand against it
even if it didn’t concern me.

But it does.

So I resist as best I know how.

Poetry has always
been a resistance.

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