The Commerce of Contempt
Poetry & Prose by Britt Wolfe
I. The Lives They Call Political
Somewhere, a girl laughs into a citrus morning—
her hair catching the sun like glass.
A boy with chipped nail polish learns the choreography
of becoming himself without apology.
Two women water their balcony garden,
their hands brushing over basil and breath,
the light pooling gold in their coffee cups.
A trans man ties his tie in the mirror,
the gesture reverent, like prayer.
These are not rebellions.
These are lives.
II. The Architects of Fear
And yet—
somewhere behind a podium,
a man rehearses the art of revulsion.
He speaks of decline as though joy were contagious,
as though love itself were a pathogen
slipping beneath the nation’s skin.
He does not believe the words.
He doesn’t have to.
They are currency—tender for the frightened,
a tithe for the faithful,
a noise to keep the masses circling the wrong fire.
III. The Machinery of Distraction
They hoist false banners—
birthrates, masculinity, tradition—
the glossed-over idols of their choosing.
Behind them, deals are struck in unlit rooms,
contracts signed in smoke,
promises inked with the bones of the poor.
While the crowd chants purity,
the powerful drink profit from their palms,
and call it providence.
IV. The Brightness They Fear
Meanwhile, the world goes on shining.
A child’s first haircut,
a lover’s hand on the small of a back,
a community garden built where a parking lot once was.
Ordinary sanctities—
the kind that terrify the cruel,
for cruelty cannot thrive in the presence of joy.
V. The Transaction of Hatred
They have commodified resentment,
packaged prejudice as patriotism,
taught the starving to hate the starving,
and the poor to worship the wealthy
who built their kingdoms from stolen bread.
And all the while,
the faithful applaud their own diminishment—
smiling through scarcity,
mistaking punishment for pride.
VI. The Reckoning of Light
But love is patient,
and truth, though trampled, remembers its name.
It will rise again through concrete—
wildflowers splitting the rhetoric,
roots rupturing every lie.
Because no law can outlaw the sun.
No policy can privatize compassion.
And no empire of intolerance
will stand forever
against the quiet, ungovernable act
of simply being.
KEEP MY WORDS ALIVE
If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.
