My scent once killed an outcast house-martin,
come Summer, Africa would have scented its plume.
I heard its last tweet from the vice of a factory cats mouth.
Since childhood I have learnt how migrant beings sing when free.
Sky is the skin of the universe and we are both the illness and the cure,
I used to whistle back to the crow incapable of joy because I saw myself in her.
Should the day ever come when I tweet my heart
I will not need one hundred and sixty characters to do so
I will hit the space bar one hundred and fifty nine times, then a comma –
and this will be my last tweet hoping that my song is all that is left and yet to come.
My Mothers scent once made three healthy boys,
she made a nest of working class heirlooms that stay with me,
her threadbare breath in winter, dead peoples ornaments, hand me down lullabies.
Hush now, we are ghosts of eggshells leaving the ectoplasm of our beautiful Mothers
Hush now, we are living our lives harder before those who steal the world keep us in cages.