Outside the city gates we stand, walking on paths made of eggshells, crushed and broken like us: the remnants of things thrown. Talking in whispers no more but keening madly, for no-one is listening anyway, and we can say what we like. There is no further punishment that they can visit on us, sitting in their ivory towers and casting breadcrusts onto the wind, knowing we cannot afford to despise their tithing. We are already lower than the dust and we have the gift of lack, which teaches us all we need to know.
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018