By Alexandra Scale
There’s no known antidote
For hoarders of economies.
Borders silence the noise of identity,
Screaming: our waters, our fish, our metals.
Godlike dominions
Cultivate seeds of dialogue,
Growing thick and fast—into branches—
Blocking the outside world from view.
Oceans bloat hearts with apathy
And with distance license
The shipping of souls
To islands of black and blue.
Walls of a compound
Trap personal histories and
Soak minds with the enzymes of sorrow.
Once bound to a home of explosions
And locked into combat,
Now a metal bed with a number etched on it,
Counting down
From one war to another.
Wire constricts
The rhythm of blood
Until it’s red on the tissue
Of a tent floor.
Those guards fill your cheeks
With a punch—
A miscellaneous incident
For the masses,
But a singular desolation
For you: the detainee.
Scars speak
To a grief so chiseled
It burrows into the pulp of your skin
And lives there.
A wrinkle down your forehead,
Splits your face in two.
One side for you,
Another side for others.
In the curve of your hand
You shepherd moths into safety,
While the tears clump to your face like snow
And your cries fill the wind.
You rock faith in your arms
Until it drifts into permanent sleep.
So you bury your fears in the sand
Of a hourglass
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting
You’re just a person really,
Just a person.
—
Alexandra Scale is a keen word enthusiast studying a Master of Arts (Writing and Literature) at Deakin University, Australia. She is currently on exchange at the University of Iceland; you can catch up on her wanderings and ramblings on her blog: 150daysiniceland.wordpress.com.
