Tell me it was for the hunger.
For hunger is when we know
anything is not an empty cry.
Picture of discolours,
Between my palms,
beneath the auburn sky –
Half a world away,
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to a metallic case.
You, muro-ami on an overcast bay,
Shadowed by a bloodshot
paddling only to be left
with yourself –
Debt that we can’t pay.
An issue without resolution
is saying drought despite the green.
Beauty despite the bloodied face.
What first felt like an insult
was a counsel to reason.
Tales foundered to deceit,
bewitching hearts and souls
like a zebra dove stunned
at the front yard.
Window hammered. The heat
penetrated the peaceful room.
How crocodile tears feed the dead.
The dead that became an empty boast.
I see her, my dearest dust,
crumbles in earliest blaze, as the winds of dawn
poisoned near a desert mine.
Make room for a country of the silenced proud.
For their disposition is to tease –
dilletante, laissez-faire, occupiers. Statues
tension and pretense
lost to the cunning generation and undimensional eyes.
Make a law that whimpers break.
Fastened to go steady with the State.
broken into pieces,
like the safety glass raining down.
No more passage.
What is in you?
What made you? Mark in it.
But for this
you must stand still.
What has broken
has not gone away.
Aged mothers, waiting. There wasn’t time
enough to see our fathers again.
Mea culpa, you have to find it.
And this, alas, Ocean, my flaw ticks
your enormous frown.
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