The Age of Resistance

Photograph by Jose Padua
When all the things I used to whisper
decline into words left unheard like
liquid spilling from a cup away
from the tongue and onto the table
is when I will cease to question
authority. When the things I used
to shout no longer give people
heart attacks or pause, when
the insane minor glimmer in my
eyes recedes like a wave crashing
in on itself is when I’ll begin
to question my reasons for
waking up in the morning and
putting on my beat-up, old shoes.
I speak now in moderate tones.
I neither whisper behind another’s
back nor do I scream to turn the ear
of those too distant to reach with
fist or finger. Resistance is a bone
in the back, a muscle in the arm,
a connection between circle and
square that cannot be removed,
cannot be refuted or refined into
evenly spaced lines. To age gracefully
into contentment is not a vanishing
because resistance is in the blood;
it does not subside, it does not
diminish. It flows, retreats,
expands, ready to whisper, ready
to scream, make peace, bleed.

-Jose Padua


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