i am not my skull
i am not this bone
scraped and bleached clean
by my enslave sisters’ hands
i am not my head
i am not my mind
without our collective heart
who am i
on your pedestal
a trophy
in your collection
a specimen
without my spirit
ancestors
who am i
but a figment
a bone fragment
of imagination
hangs around a neck
cut and tied
sinews of attention
throttle memory
the gurgling feeds
a shake of healing
in the presence of moment
above my shoulder
blades cut off
at the hem
to handle the edge
between my memory
and your pain
a heart, an open grave
a dead body, a head bone
and a spade
there was no narrative
no pinnacle to work back from
just a cemetery in time
where stories were told
by the gloss on stones
embossed with modern font
a backdrop echoed
by unmarked graves
neglected on another front
by the skulls, mumbling
in shallow voices
of the heat of the midday sun
the commotion
by the station now abandoned
rust remembers the line
between the profane
and the sublime
dust finds its way
with iron ghosts of bones
scattered with broken stones
a storm gathers to tell
of absent names and stars
at the cairn cross
on the forgotten path
people are stories
tied to stone words
hooked between barbs of wire
stones are animals
animated in the wild
contained in imagination
people are spirits
that roam un-free
of the fettered root-tree
no clear start
nor beginnings to trace
just a cemetery of soldiers
dead bodies and children
born in the margins
spaced with the graves
brought on a map
to sweep and shovel sand
off a beaten track
in a sealed box
skulls and bones
begin to move us
sands in an hourglass
forgotten in time
stir and goad us
inside, what had moved
had itself changed
as the storyline goes
in Gibeon meteors showered
and fell to land elsewhere
on a skull island of privilege
rain reveals skeletons
diamond studded with bullets
played by puppet masters
a charade of forged memories
slide on the serpent’s tale
the furnace feeds the spade
of forgetfulness
there is mirrored glass
and urge of the engorged glans
a generation of skulls
washed clean and eager
ready to tell their stories
virile tales of youth
bleed slowly into
violent tales of fear
tricksters are born again
as a storm gathers
silver linings are sharpened
mirrored in visual noise
of bold colonial statues
to crime against humanity
that’s poised to tower loudly
rings a drone
of muted song
singing the praises
of heroes unsung
in margins of space
between and beyond
the threshold of bones
a lullaby fades
a choir on its last breath
sighs at the halitosis of youth
fuelled to start fires
intoxicated by greed and fear
increased to below
the poverty line
where dirty linen languish
pegged to public shame
the dole lingers
the homeless zula-zula
for a loaf of bread
and a drink-o-pop
embarrassed to evade
the foreign gaze
that hold contempt
a virtue
encouraged to hold out
hollow hands
heavy with indignation
empathy weeps an inner tear
