The first mouthful turns me inside out,
my soul screams down a tunnel of memories.
The slap, the fist, the spittle in my eyes
the sound of my mothers whimpering cries.
A key in the door, the stairwells echo
panicked faces in torch-light.
The desert with impact craters like a scarred brain,
sack cloth floating in the hot seared air.
This is where I laid that memory to rest,
where I exorcised my trauma by transference,
where I pollenated a thousand miseries,
with lead and fist and bomb,
where I punched a peoples shadow
until the shadow was all gone,
and I’m pouring in the poison that blackens out my skies,
for that fucker on the stairwell, he’ll never hear me cry.
© Wolfgar 2019