I had my grandfather’s mouth.
In famine he was told to thrive on hunger.
He wouldn’t swallow it.
They cut his tongue out.
I had my father’s eyebrows.
They arced like blackbird’s wings
and nearly touched across his brow.
He kept his head down.
I had my mother’s lips.
She sang true songs of long ago.
Now my lips are blue,
she sews her’s up in grief.
I was last in a line,
shouldering well the hope of many.
I was an only child,
bearer of a name’s eternity.
When they burst my skull with an iron bar
they murdered so well, so often.
They killed my father, my mother
and all before and after for ever and ever.
Like a stream vanished in a drought
we are gone to a place without laughter,
a place without children,
a place of endless silence.
When I came here only wanting
to open my mouth,
when I came here only wanting
to learn how to speak.
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