The Dying Body Chronicles 3: A song without voice
The gay birds have flown
into the fingers of night.
Their wings decorate the night's
cry with colour. What do we do,
we who have no home to go to?
On the stone, in the water,
on the dust of wind, our spittle
weeps against the world.
Who has heard our cry?
We are waiting for the doors
to open, unleash light
into our darkness. Which hands
are this that carry mercy & charity?
Are they human? Someone tickles
the banjo & it wails across
its strings like a waif lost
among restless tress, a haunt
resting weary feet on headstones.
When will God come?
Are you not tired here?
The gay birds are specks
in the eye of the sun, dark skin
pressed against the soft bulge
of the cloudy sky? Will they come
again with their songs & colours?
Will we eat this communion
with saints & sinners, olive oil
washing sin into six feet of earth
upturned like an untidy bed?
I have words on my tongue,
prophecy hooked to my teeth.
I chew & spit the sinew of words.
I tighten the drum of my heart
& when hands lay on my chest
to check the rhythm of my song,
all they hear is the hollow noise
testing throat for voice.
If only the gay birds will return.
If only the night will cease it's cry.
If only I will survive this life.
