oh fair child
tar under your nails
the hot cobble stones of your own back street
the chaos and the glory of the earth between the cracks
all a glint on a distant sea
I grieve for you,
just as I rally for you,
strive for you,
rage against the horrors of the sickened day

beloved,
sleeping Susannah
I wish to hear you mutter forever
your secret sleeping language
in your sweet high tones
the squeaks and comical moans
I wish to hear you sigh that way, for such time
that I might be fully healed, and more,
that I might be empowered,
enthroned,
carried beyond time
and the sickening horrors of the day

Ibrahim and Fatmata,
Levi and Tanya,
I am a throbbing wall of heat in the heart of
the market street
I am rising from the stinging bike exhausts
I am pushing higher than the UN chopper
I surpass all the metal sheets and ragged tarps
I eviscerate all the shit in all the gutters
and heal the rot in all the wild dogs
all because of the fair child and sleeping Susannah
and the stars on the road to Kenema
and the scars of Bentalha
and the blindness of strangers.
The blindness of strangers.