I
There is always a question of why? that sits in the echo of our footsteps. A girl cannot guzzle down a shadow, and a boy cannot bury it either. It has to be weathered, like we do, when the night robs us of our fathers and daughters. We swallow it, nesting its rapacity in our ribs until its rot gushes from our orifices. We embody the fluency of mutilated tongues as we comb sewers and rivers, looking for traces of our martyrs’ bodies.

 

II
A country masks its appetite for its new blood. Twisting and contorting to eat itself, its fight, and the days its offspring bled for. As if every generation has to drench the earth before earning a night not punctuated with loss inflicted by its birthplace. We — who gnaw at the ache of a country engulfing its children — pick our names as they slip from its mouth, asking to trade the enamel of our teeth for the bones of the children snatched from us.

 

III
The white of bone, pink of skull and red of blood, should not be how a mother gathers her child once the country is done chewing them. There are no coffins. Just small boxes and delicate urns. That is what remained after the country feasted on our children, then leaned back to get drunk on our misery.

 

IV
Time: drowning. Femur: rotting.
Spine: broken. Cranium: leaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Micha Frank on Unsplash