On bodies, and prisons, and air


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.


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