15 March 2015

The blade

I saw history, and I ringed its nose, in a story
carried by altered lines I saw the end. Meanings
of night rend into this cloth again and again,
till we can fashion but nothing for our lives
save doeks and arm-bands we wear year in year out.
The blade makes a sound, before slashing waft
by individual waft at the silence of precise noise,
which is like a fact that no one can fathom—
but now, when I gaze at the sky and struggle
to hear it, and, even afterwards, as dawn lies
bleeding on the ground before the main house,
words form in the mouths of open graves, from
what it is graves see of the world when they awake.
We went from sons of relatives to here, hanging
onto lineages, from thread woven into us again
to these frayed strands of hope, to each promise
that on a rock is being broken. For I was born
by those felled in mid-sleep, those never afraid
to furnish some little hope, to re-enter shadows,
which in a million deaths will never have us.

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