Hungry mothers marched toward the Russian captial in Petrograd. They demanded bread, provisions for their sons fighting on the Eastern Front in WWI. Cossocks and local police attempted to turn them back. Some officer ordered young, inexperienced, and under equipped soldiers to fire into the crowd. But when they looked down their rifles’ gunsights, they saw their own mothers and sisters, aunts and cousins. The oldest may have seen young wives, and young daughters.
The guns stayed silent. Sometime after, the last Tsar fell.
night becomes day
authoritarianism
trades faces
What will our descendents say about these July days in Portland, Oregon? When mothers stood arm in arm, dressed in bright yellow and white? When they say about their chants of “Leave our kids along?” and “Feds go home,” while standing as shields for Black Lives Matter protestors?
What will they say of the camaflaged, multi-purpose uniformed Federal officers that shot them with tear-gas and rubber bullets?
day becomes night
“Mom and apple pie” becomes
a casualty
for dVerse Poets’ Tuesday Poetics: Revolution (pubtended by Merril)
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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