Children of the Stones
He played in a turret-city filled with hate.
Chased shadowy flocks of stone-shitting pain.
Racks of eyes latched onto every move
and stretched his shadow to the length of a soldier.When he was 14, soldiers took his brother
and he felt his blood for the first, unforgettable time.
That was the day he felt the tug of the stone
and its hot, sharp, violent testimony.The day the soldiers took his brother,
he learned the shape of his future -
which he threw straight back at them.They dragged him to a paddock by the lobes of his ears,
pulled his guilty arm behind his back and jumped.
Theirs was the kind of cruelty only victims perpetrate.He dreamed of sand and blood and calligraphy
while hovering female shapes tore strips off their shrouds.His father polished three sweating silver beads.
His mother stitched stones into his palm.
