I can hear a child
–
out of the anaemic silence
of the sun’s warp, daydreaming
in the dark Classroom’s depth
–
a child,
begot and beaten into learning
how to live behind the blood’s
bottled confusion of skin,
–
The endless conflict
of a porous bruise,
–
leaking into morning’s ritual
of Mamas laying out makaa
–
out of the fire of yesterday,
–
Hens cluck songs from fear
and men hear the struck screams
of themselves, distantly-
–
in the choral playground of today’s
concealed imitation of tomorrow,
–
games are stone scratched
on the sands of the moon, blind
folded hopscotch frames
in which to resolve
–
But tell me when, when
does one ever grow up?
–
to become perfectly chiral
to the prism jar, glassed
in the existence
of a hemorrhagic past?
