We wore stickers and took to twitter.
We knew our lines should be longer
but we snapped them into blunted words anyway;
we needed them sharp but with no weight, depth or curves.
Lines are lighter with no nuance, easier to hurl across the divide,
the Great British chasm across which we cried that we were ‘Stronger In’
while you howled your need to take back control of the borders,
the fetishized lines around our island
you wanted to fold up like tent poles, rearrange on the floor
while the roof collapsed and turn us into a nation of corners.
But we, in our arrogance, thought we were fine,
we thought let them draw lines in the sand while we
sand down lines of coke on the backs of our iphones
in London, line up for lattes in the land of disposable income,
supposed land of the enlightened
where we left our lights on so bright
that blinding blots jumped in front of our eyes
when we squinted out to the rest of the country;
rundown towns whose electricity we were draining
where it became easier for demagogues to prowl at constant dusk
using distraction tactics and setting traps in the dark,
explaining to forgotten people that the blame lay with
those of darker complexions;
where the barren ground was fertile for sowing the seeds
of what would grow into a national obsession
with nationalism. Who are we now? Where are we going?
Were you born here? Is this the breadline or the queue for the border?
Who are you? Where are you going? Can I see some ID?
We voted Leave.
Now our lines are so stunted they’re not lines at all,
our lines are bigot, our lines are immigrant,
our lines are vowel sounds and horror
The lines we drew while in the EU are ruptured joints,
the lines we thought we knew are paths off a cliff,
the lines are dissolved and breached and broken
And now in this land where ancient ley lines stretch from Glastonbury
to Stone Henge, where polite queues stretch from the loos to
their ends, where we’ve crossed lines and lost friends,
we must find a way
to line up again.