21 February 2018
It will be under the shade of your trees. And when we fall.
It will be against your pockmarked garden's wall.
And will our blood drain there amongst the lemongrass and sweetpeas?
Yes. Right there in your garden's soil. Our children will be your orphans.
You know this already. And you are untroubled by it.
But then we will be the summer leaves.
Silver in the fall.
That blanket fallow garden beds.
And bunch up against your pockmarked garden's wall.
And when you sit to winter dine.
We will be the roots that brighten up and bitter your untroubled bowl of soup.
Then -- In the muddy blight of spring.
Where death contends with life.
Our children will be roast as sweetmeats and served your new unblemished wife.
And our bones will overturn like seasons every stone in your pockmarked garden's wall