By Queen Mother
Our children carry war zones on their backs.
Their tongues acting like swords carved with anger, sharpened words and weighted through profanity.
Fingers bruised and nails bitten.
Their hair, carrying secrets and cries from the ether.
Our feet, forming callouses between toes- grudges tightening under our soles.
The body knows the tales our parents forgot to tell us. It morphs our spines into hunchbacks and builds mountains on our shoulders – making way for the silent battle of our ancestors.
These are curses painted in mud between our ribs. Drowning our hearts in tears.
However, an avatar will continue to grace our bloodlines like a tidal wave – cleansing our spirits with potions of majesty.
Where no man’s land occupies our temples, making way for the light again.
For daffodils to bloom from our throats and our backs acting as shields.
Windows to our folklore.