Died in a foreign land.
What he left behind
is a cold meal and
smell of confined
air and ache rest in repeating.
Hatred of mirrors begun in breeding.
The skin’s not mine.
The skin’s not mine.
These hands have been marked
by dry grief and seared harm.
These hands will ruin their own shades.
A common dirt, a proper shame.
Milk and coal stained my toothless, open smile.
Your anger pulled me out from that old womb.
I’m a gift of an accidental lie,
a useless waste what we make when we create.
I spit in the lock and the knob turns.
Got the mail from the ministry:
„How shall we get said what must be said?
Sadly, this is your family.”
Inherited.
Life is like crushed apples
in the backyard.
The lines of our bones
end here.
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