Inheritance
Safety in silence: here in the dark, we are
carving wickerwork out of our shoulders,
washing the colours from our skin and the
rage from our tongues. I don’t know why
I wear the quiet like armour cold against
my ribs, with this language (dirty) closed
book pressed against my side and buried
(blade) in my chest. Maybe it’s because my
mother wrings her hands when I speak:
keep your head down, and they can’t touch
you. My voice is an invitation alongside
shambling name, but I join a long line of
us, told to study hard to acquire the voice
we already have. You are soundless (still)
after years of toil, wearing a face of fear over
your mouth of love; and so I let the tart
English rain swig back this body in drifts,
chisel away at jade, and bath me in blood.
Safety in silence: here in the dark, we are
carving wickerwork out of our shoulders,
washing the colours from our skin and the
rage from our tongues. I don’t know why
I wear the quiet like armour cold against
my ribs, with this language (dirty) closed
book pressed against my side and buried
(blade) in my chest. Maybe it’s because my
mother wrings her hands when I speak:
keep your head down, and they can’t touch
you. My voice is an invitation alongside
shambling name, but I join a long line of
us, told to study hard to acquire the voice
we already have. You are soundless (still)
after years of toil, wearing a face of fear over
your mouth of love; and so I let the tart
English rain swig back this body in drifts,
chisel away at jade, and bath me in blood.
