issue 11: aug 2016, Poetry
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Forged by Shirley Jones-Luke

Cautious in our steps, poker
faces leaning against our homes.
We are sinewy, brown flesh. A cloak of
fog pulled stiffly around the bleakness.
.
We sweltered in July.

Flames bright around our necks,
almost bare as the soil, our games
happened around the fire, would we,
brown children, accomplish this task?

The other day, we searched for gems
in tunnels. A shop was created that
sold cracked pieces of water buds,
barren bee hives, feathers.

Our education could be found on
the untraveled road. We turned in
surprise from progress, ignorant
to the siren’s wail and our mothers’
whispered worries.

When our poker faces failed in the
tumult, we scampered into the
acrid avenues of our neighborhood,
heads aflame due to an anger that
would transform everything that
we knew.


 

Shirley Jones-Luke is a Poet, writer and educator.  Freelance writer. Bookshop browser.  Fashionista.  Lover of literature. You can find her on twitter.

Cover Illustration by Taylor Mobley (website).

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