Maybe (a sonnet from the other side)

by Sam Rasnake


freedom isn't freedom anymore, maybe

words fall on us like Jericho's walls, like

planetesimals from a remote solar nebula —

given enough time our tongues are guns

with full clips and broken safeties for grip,

for thumb and half-cock, maybe our hate

is one big circle of disgrace moving farther

and further from any center we could hope

to dream as home so we give up dreaming,

leaving only us and them — maybe freedom

is Turkish delight, everything in moderation

and more, or not — or it's chaos theory as

gospel with testimonial: where are they now

maybe that's why we love to throw rocks