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Our children

 

We come from broken houses
Asbestos, black mould, the damp
Bottled in cigarette smoke and liquor in brown paper bags.
The cold seeps
sits, eats,
Beats
through every quiet pore.
 
Fearful of kitchenware clamour, our drunken men;
Pilots of aerial bowls, the craftsmen of chipped teacups,
Shipmates of buoyant
Utensils. Oh.
Thechildren
                        Scream. Fight.
Sleep
                                                  in the street.
 
We make home of the skyline, drench skin on park benches
Rinse, wring
Our limbs on train lines, the pulse beneath the city.
 
Children of hardened angels,
Our wise women teach language
By pulling out our tongues/
Scream silently if the police come.
 
Children of the sidewalk, quiet cut-out of sandstone
Sing electric, eclectic band of mercenaries
Oh, watch how we disappear the more they see,
The more they hear
Us.

Go to Gloria Demillo's profile to read more poems