HÅRB (OR ON WAGING WAR IN SPITE OF GOD)
As told by my mother: all good
is holy, while evil finds itself in those
who do not sleep,
those whom lie
awake learning to write
and heed
and pray;
in me, this wired thing.
My father did all he could
to be sure
I was birthed with a beating
fist to go with those
sleepless beasts, my lungs.
We find—to this day—a book
of versed calligraphy is the prettiest
flesh to make a lamb of.
This is what I will tell my son
when he is beckoned by
the bully in him,
when his scorn loses
sight of its prey.
—
When piqued, boys be a bone.
Be a tantrum, a cracked tomb
of discipline exorcising itself
into the backs of boys we had
no business putting our fists
inside of. I tried so hard
to find myself in the spines
of the men who wronged me.
—
If my son develops a taste for blood,
I will blame it on
the enemies of my father
and our ancestors.
One day, he will ask me about the red
in the river of our name, where
it turned.
When he does, I will have
the same answer I did
when my parents told me to hold
my tongue and cleanse
my fistful
heart: I do not know what to throw away
when nothing belongs to me.