We are your sons
We are your fathers
We are your half-smiles and frail limbs
We are your motel vacancies in blood long shed.
Shadows cast in the dim light of societal separation
A winding ward’s floor, once bleached like bone
Is now a cockroach’s pitched and pitted playground
Men still endure here against all indignity.
A screaming curse against once firm truths
Be they sacred stone or a brother’s bond
Shaking hatred shatters even Christmas photographs
It hurts, it hurts, my god, it just hurts.
In even this
We still have an embrace to give
Our illness is not yet death
And we are alive.
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