Ortolan

He is under armour. Kevlar, toughened plastic, advanced material science.

I am under armour. Rabbit collar, for winter sit-ins. Hair back, to show all of my face.

Wear a high vis jacket, they always said, to be unseen. Well, that won’t work anymore.

But, just now, we hold in tension. The instant before the balance tips.

Pull on the hood. Tiny bones crunch, slicing into hard palate. The mouth fills with blood.

Something has to give. Doesn’t it?