It's March 3, 2025. We are (checks calendar) 43 days into what I am going to call a fascist coup. 43 days of some really, objectively bad shit. If you are surprised by my take, this ain't the page for you, and I'm not the artist for you. They rest of you, us? Don't obey in advance, keep resisting, and refuse to give up your joy however you find it. Also, floss. You don't want gingivitis AND fascism.
Caitlin Seida's poem is keeping me going. Drawing by me. Paper made by Selen LaMarca. Brown ink made by Niki Parker.
(with permission)
Hope Is Not a Bird, Emily, It’s a Sewer Rat
by Caitlin Seida
Hope is not the thing with feathers
That comes home to roost
When you need it most.
Hope is an ugly thing
With teeth and claws and
Patchy fur that’s seen some shit.
It’s what thrives in the discards
And survives in the ugliest parts of our world,
Able to find a way to go on
When nothing else can even find a way in.
It’s the gritty, nasty little carrier of such
diseases as
optimism, persistence,
Perseverance and joy,
Transmissible as it drags its tail across
your path
and
bites you in the ass.
Hope is not some delicate, beautiful bird,
Emily.
It’s a lowly little sewer rat
That snorts pesticides like they were
Lines of coke and still
Shows up on time to work the next day
Looking no worse for wear.
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