These cries ring like a bone lodged in a swollen gum,
Or meat hiding from a loose tongue.
When asked to think of home,
I think of a child abandoned on a bush path,
roaming with dried tears glued to her cheeks.
This is what happens when a king steps into hell and forgets to close the door,
When nightmares roam the streets without a mask,
Forging me into their accessory.
I shroud myself in a blanket of rainbows & try to blot out the sounds,
For a moment it fades into hums,
But before I blink, it erupts like the song of a white bellbird.

Where I come from, we don’t hang mistletoes,
We hang missing photos,
& When we ask why the skies take our little ones,
Devour our men,
& Strip our women naked,
They leave no reply,
Until our voices fade into smoke.

My mother crochets soliloquies,
Hangs them on the door and calls them wishes,
I call them talismans of nothingness.
Like making paper boats in a flood,
We hide our sores instead of adding medicine,
It gets rotten. It reeks.
When I think of home,
I think of voices silenced into drowning in a fool’s paradise.









Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash