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Abstract

suffer too, the walks, the sun, the physical labor, the wearing of clothing that is not what we prefer</p><p id="8a67">that’s me — made for couches, made for beds, made for art and thought,</p><p id="7e3e">made for lazy things and cuddling and in this dystopia, our dystopia</p><p id="6cac">I long to be okay and safe in my best “paint me like one of your French girls” pose, even as the Titanic is about to sink, at least it’s romantic,</p><p id="19a1">sigh -</p><p id="7f22">What will become of me in this pandemic? What will become of poets in this pandemic?</p><p id="1539">What will we do? Us women who write, us women who dwell</p><p id="137a">in the soft dark corners of our homes thinking and sleeping</p><p id="6ead">shutting the blinds when the sun gets too bright will we, will I wrap the seeds of the plants others</p><p id="6118">know how to grow in words, in verse, in blessings? Will this be of use? Will we be tasked with</p><p id="b60e">graffiti duty, perhaps, when dystopia needs some freshening up?</p><p id="9451">brandishing the walls and gutted buildings of the world that was</p><p id="cf79">the world that rightly and justly fell after allowing so much evil and greed.</p><p id="5fa7">Will we leave messages for the next group of travelers</p><p id="a27a">will we let them know that even in our dystopia, our lands of empty space and</p><p id="c1cf">dirt and weeds and broken glass rubber gloves and disposable masks</p><p id="ec62">discarded from the careless past we can find spaces for those who</p><p id="5bd0">require shade

Options

and sweet soft spaces covered in words.</p><p id="62b1">©<a href="https://medium.com/@jennyjustice">Jenny Justice.</a> All Rights Reserved.</p><p id="1529"><b><i>Jenny Justice</i></b><i>, Poet. Author of Love in the Time of Climate Change and Reveal. You can read more of her poetry at<a href="https://medium.com/justice-poetic"> Justice Poetic.</a></i> <i>Sign up for her newsletter <a href="https://jennyjustice.substack.com/p/coming-soon?r=2jhb2&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email&utm_source=copy">here</a></i>.</p><div id="6cea" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/pandemic-tuesday-668d80a87a90"> <div> <div> <h2>Pandemic Tuesday</h2> <div><h3>A Poem</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*OOL48-GbCI7Yyuzs)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="4de7" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/dystopia-8cec84f5a174"> <div> <div> <h2>Dystopia</h2> <div><h3>A Poem</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*ck0pn9JK5pj3WKrA)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Dystopia is not going to be easy on me

A poem

I didn’t walk that fast or that far because I hate sweating, I hate the sun

- it’s hot, it burns, I turn red, red, red - I like what it does for us, okay, but not what it does to me, -

I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry I know, it sounds awful, it might be awful but

dystopia is not going to be easy on me the apocalypse is not going to be kind

for a plus sized nerd girl with glasses who prefers robes and wine, coffee and pjs, shade and snow

this place that is now where bits and pieces of all

dystopian ideas are realized all around us

is hot and sick, is hard and bright is hard work for those who

lack the body and financial stamina who don’t grow our own food or

have a savings account or land

I am sure in this dystopia we will eventually roam

do the nomad thing but then I think oh my glasses, every character

with glasses in every dystopia just has the hardest time

and the chubby ones suffer too, the walks, the sun, the physical labor, the wearing of clothing that is not what we prefer

that’s me — made for couches, made for beds, made for art and thought,

made for lazy things and cuddling and in this dystopia, our dystopia

I long to be okay and safe in my best “paint me like one of your French girls” pose, even as the Titanic is about to sink, at least it’s romantic,

sigh -

What will become of me in this pandemic? What will become of poets in this pandemic?

What will we do? Us women who write, us women who dwell

in the soft dark corners of our homes thinking and sleeping

shutting the blinds when the sun gets too bright will we, will I wrap the seeds of the plants others

know how to grow in words, in verse, in blessings? Will this be of use? Will we be tasked with

graffiti duty, perhaps, when dystopia needs some freshening up?

brandishing the walls and gutted buildings of the world that was

the world that rightly and justly fell after allowing so much evil and greed.

Will we leave messages for the next group of travelers

will we let them know that even in our dystopia, our lands of empty space and

dirt and weeds and broken glass rubber gloves and disposable masks

discarded from the careless past we can find spaces for those who

require shade and sweet soft spaces covered in words.

Jenny Justice, Poet. Author of Love in the Time of Climate Change and Reveal. You can read more of her poetry at Justice Poetic. Sign up for her newsletter here.