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They beat our tongues smooth,
The kasbah shuddered and wailed.
I teeth the language, pocked and bloody.
The boys crashed into the sand: it welcomed them.
In the rain, her hair was a river of petals.
My grandfather spoke with a red tongue.
A blade is a mirror is a blade is a wound.
The men hauled their bodies from sea.
The mountains vanish and took her too.
When I return, the land spits at my feet.
There is no shame in this, I’m told.
The men crumbled into sand: I watched them.
I spun in dust and gravel, nameless and red.
Contrary to ache, I still know nothing of guilt.
In our mouths, we bled then and bleed still.
Her child had my hair and my eyes.
There was only heat and forests of smoke.
I know there is only light at the end. 
I know when it begins, it is dark.
Contrary to wound, I still know nothing of defeat.