Exhumations

It was not hard to miss me against the pale wall Of people that I drifted against, black as gall My face on the margin of a white sunrise stood Impaled by light falling from the covert sweep Of eyes. My skin schooled me, for nothing good Was in the history I inherited from you. I keep Those days I exhume now and then as mirrors here Measuring reflections of modern moments of fear. My children see what the mirror shows, not deep Subterranean privacies that in the core never sleep What will they think if I tell them I led marches Confronted by grim prospects and guns hostile glint Against the eyes bull, I crossed muddled trenches To protect them, and now watch flicking at a lint With such significant disgust, will they ever know The cost of that beauty in us that we cannot show? The soul of the artist wears masks for muted pains The young will never understand, shadows of chains Breaking that should not break, I have come so far To face again the matter, a different disrespect wedged Between us. I will not ladle you hurt from any scar I earned. We lived in a different world, I have pledged Nothing to you, broken things are never to be given The black face boy sweetening tea with gall for heaven.