What was I to you?
Let me suggest a few new words:
A figment, a fragment,
Imagination with sepsis,
A curve, a disaster.
A word, a quiet scourge,
A red-white sticking plaster
To bandage the scars on your sotted heart.
You’re distilled in my moles,
My melanin converged;
I carry you with me, my daily dirge;
I was your inconvenience, placed
In the way of your mythical thirst.
Your scale, your weight,
I was worse than the worst
Dreams of marsh-mires which gobbled your hearse.
A ritual forgotten,
A language unheard,
A poem unwritten,
A pugilist hurt,
Did she hand you the key
To the cell you deserved?
A grandfather gnawing through this earth,
Deprived of his sons, and their sons’ births.
I am only just beginning
To know where you are, oblivion;
It is not made from bones and flax
But the sound of beating drums.
Burn me with my poems
And Time poured on my chest,
My verboseness overflowing,
Only then will we rest.