For Boys lacking little things as Sleep
My mother asked how we would feed that day.
her lips poised into curse words that claws,
stings & makes my old man rich in hardship.
this was how she knew motherhood– with an eye for mercy.
mercy, recent search for mercy-killing:
for one thousand ways to die in a dark room,
for how i lost my voice to scribbling,
for what i do when i’m not playing with poison,
& how i carry my silence around without being friends with ghosts,
& how i delay my meals to find no one else at the dinning.
familiar faces seeing through me,
the wars & depression polished on the forehead of a boy backing the world in prayers
made silent, like streets with churches wearing nose masks
& pastors making sign language look like a recent pandemic.
even God knows how to keep silent when he is not turning water to wine.
my father tells me to be open.
each time he enters the room,
i lose my worth in between a poem.
my sister closes her eyes
thinking she needs a jovial brother,
not this one who only has flair for ear piece,
& limericks with punchlines to keep him busy all night.