12 July 2015

À mes frères

This is memory with a little dried blood on it,
a thought from children whose brains we know
are indelible. My brothers have carried that memory
for more than thirty years, now, like a woman
carries the scar of a beating. They saw
a human brain for the first time at a young age,
scattered on bedclothes like custard during
some glad event, and even the trees outside,
whose wind that night had thrown hay
against the corners of parapets, had looked away.
The neighbours stopped staying in, with morning,
and started coming out, alerted by screams
from that house on whose hill we had lived.
These two just happened to be the first to stumble in.
But they're men now, my brothers, people
with families, homes outside Maseru, accounts
at a local bank, and children who brush their teeth
after dinner, pray for well-being during sleep,
and jam chairs against their bedroom doors.

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