by Denni Turp, with image above by Martin Gollan
(after Fuck your lecture on craft, my people are dying by Noor Hindi)
One day I’ll write about the words like we own them,
hold them in my hands to warm them before I set them free,
whisper in their ears that they should be gentle, be clear
and ready to dance into each open ear, all outstretched arms,
should smile back into all bewildered faces, all frightened eyes.
I’ll teach them to whistle happy tunes, songs that link to where
and how we stand, slow down the pace to sad laments that linger
in the air, turn them loose through rain to wash stones clean
of all that dust and blood that fell before. I’ll gift them baskets
full of fruit to distribute, carry onward—and bright jugs
of sparkling water to refresh parched lips and throats.
Then, maybe, they’ll have a chance to break their bonds and fly,
make fierce new constellations full of life and light
against so many years of darkened sky.
