The light from the lighthouse, north of where the
unspeakables lived, was an indication to burn
the brightest torch light we had, to burn
the soft echoes of the mountains where we
lived, into the ashen ground of the deadly
lips that soiled where all the stories grew.

The light meant that we must set fire to the
corners of our wilting walls, glued thick with
alcohol from the blood of the rapists, who pulled
our insides apart from their sordid stenches,
reeking of timid pelts screeched off of tigers
on their hunting trips- horses whinnying,
galloping in circles like a carousel, fighting
their breaths and eating dried hay, slurping
mouths that’ve never tasted flesh- to the huts
where the unspeakables cut their hay,
closing in behind walls of green, luscious
waves of their crop. The light blinks four
times, and the fires from our five candles
are tamed to fly, as if butterflies burning
the air around them, and the crooked walls
surrender after three days, the men inside
take three hours, while the farms lay still
to acknowledge the lights of the sun;

now the unspeakables slip into the ashes and sit,
now the unspeakables are tamed,
and we rape their remains.


14 thoughts on “Survival

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