I wore a blood red dress.
The box with the dead old man was near and I was made to march.
The crowd left space near me, as though I was a hole in the road down which they might fall. They wore type D tops, had soft soled shoes. I tried to see a glint of joy in those hard by, but there was none.
I knew that they were close.
I made my mouth an O. “We are free,” I sang. And from the shade they came, with their sharp suits, their Style A hair, and their guns.
By Petra McQueen
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