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.
