Tell Mother Earth where you have hidden her children;
Of their smooth and brown adorning your cell walls;
Of the uterus you have imprisoned her in;
Of their smooth and brown growing into your chalk lines
And the crucifix you have prepared for the soft in her lovers.
I know Willows don’t just weep for the children who play beneath them;
For the day they will learn that home is no safety
And laughter no harbour
And the bodies we leave behind when we loot this soil
The nostalgia in this landscape will soon be dismantled
As the heaviness of clouds; switch and sharpen
Like the lenses of cameras
And this silver rusts
You have clipped the wings of too many birds to find normality in this freedom
Yes, I know why the caged bird sings Maya
She’s learned to love these bars like the hollow of shot glasses
Spill this bitch and nigga and dyke from mouth
Still, one day she will look fearless
In the eye as she says no
She is learning to catch the slack in her own chin
Incarceration is a hymn this skin has learned to wear well
And unlearned the purity in keeping the apex of these thighs a secret from ourselves
No doubt, these caged birds will soon sing songs in packs
They know this melody falls like the oval of a raindrop at birth
That when it finds home in many throats, like the storm in these eyes
It will soon be impossible to escape.
I am still choking on the story
You have written mine
The histories between your leaves are not my own
My words sit between the lines of this soils history
Passes between dandelion lips which cannot forget
I am no victor,
I have seen too many of my kin slain
For your unholy throne
We have lived in bodies lain waste to by these fingertips
Souls broken by the crook of this tongue
These hands have been dipped in blood for too long
The pyramid between these touching palms
Can cry for no god.
I am in mourning.
Sun kiss these blades,
Wish them well in the war that lies ahead.
I learnt to glamourise the
Towering of hell and all that is pain
Over the small spaces in which I carved my first words
I now know that euphemism is the crack in which hopelessness can germinate.
When we learn to love the art in our bruises
We often forget how we got them
Or to resist
There is no healing in silence
I am ready to speak.
I will kill the dyke from his lips
By loving myself violently
I will remind these boys and girls
That we are human
I am learning to navigate the open mouths in these clouds
I want to find heaven in this grey
I want to find it for us.