Strike
we will strike while the iron is hot
we will raise our fists, filled with the blazing red
of copper that has steamed scars into our hands
refusing to let thickened skin be broken
we will strike with the metal thrust against us
building marching orders out of prescribed instructions
we will take arms out of the rage in tediously pressed sleeves
and reject clean, rigid shapes, held by wire frames
we will unpick the threads we have been made to stitch
across our own opening eyelids
we will strike iron through irony
rip away creases, once removed from linen
that have re-appeared on our dirt-smeared brows
our spirits pressed with fabric
that we might one day burn
we will strike while the iron is hot
we will capture sparks from fiery metal
and brand them into the holes in our eyes
we will use the flames of stubborn strength
to singe striding steps aimed on top of our rising shoulders
we will fight against the thud of shoes we have mended
refusing to be trodden, again, into dirt
we will strike while the iron is hot
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Semaphore
we spoke only in semaphore subtext
cloth colours waving wild
drawing the shapes of sentiment
that we could never speak out loud
we thrust flags in each other’s faces
left them to dot our far-off hills
pretending we couldn’t read them
when they spelled out the true distance between us
I wish your words had been painted in red
I might have seen the paint between your outlines
I might have learned I wasn’t colour-blind
my words fell beneath black ink
covering my bone-white cries
when cold sweat stripped their coating
pale surrender laced my final flag
the words my voice could never reach