ً

to be and belong.

cast a brother into a pit, and the wilderness shall weave you with its roots.

there is little suffering in slaughter. he will make us live.

ask me what glory tastes like, and i will spit on your grave. therein does victory lie. therein does sovereignty sour and reverence rot.

like a corpse to the ground, goes a man into fatherhood, falls a moth from a flame, runs a child into his father's arms.

there is a goat between the jaws of a lion, and from its mouth, your voice speaks.

he would ask me what glory tastes like, and i would kill you all over again.

my knees hit the floor, and i cannot find it within me to worship.

they look at me instead of just my face for the first and last time.

reuben stares at the rising sun, and i do not question if it hurts less than staring at me because when i stare at the sun, i know.

BEING FATHERLESS IS BETTER THAN BEING FAVOURLESS. DUST IS DUST, EVEN IF IT DREAMS.

i am a pile of fractured bones ripped from the skeletons in my mother's closet, scattered on the likewise fissured tile; waiting to be swept up.

mother says we look alike, but she looks at you more. like the moon and stars, she used to say.

ask me what glory tastes like, and i will spit on your grave. therein does victory lie. therein does sovereignty sour and reverence rot.

Lord, watch my fist. Lord, watch another man fall.

A FATHER LOVES HIS CHILDREN LIKE A MAN LOVES HIS BROTHER. DUST IS DUST, EVEN IF IT BREATHES.

dust does not bow, nor does it rot.

father's frown hammers a nail through my ribs and rips the flesh straight off the bone. 'how could you?' he asks—quiet, calm and graceful. 'how could you do that?'

mother says we look alike, but she looks at you more. like the moon and stars, she used to say.

they look at me instead of just my face for the first and last time.