Our home is a jagged mouth, streaming out pleas to the dead We are misshapen teeth uprooting ourselves
But we could have spent our time burying strangers instead We would've settled in and found out our names
But calm your heart The dark is still the dark
We'd told our sons to wait their turns, like eager months lined up in herds to age our skin and stretch us out. They never get tired of stretching us out.
We read the braille with our bare feet It would not teach us how to see, But we finally realized ourselves.
Varuna is counting the notches and nicks in our planks. Do we deserve the grave, or the table you set for the liars and unloving husbands and wives? They hadn't seen themselves They couldn't have known.
But face that fact, Every branch you cut grows back.
And we're growing into the thought that we're cast like iron, forced into these shapes.