X

In between wrestling with whiteness and writing
we are here. We mark X.

we die a million deaths before going to bed
we find the last morsel of hope left under our pillows
where we are finally able to lay down our heads,
smell peace and taste rest,
wake up in the morning to start over again.
we eat dry chunks of life for breakfast,
swallow down the weight of our breaths
with exhales of gratitude for suns after moons.

In between wrestling with writing and worship
we are here. We mark X.

we step into the stories of those before us
walk into their prophecies, write down their memorised maps,
wonder how they survived after execution, fall asleep on their laps;
we wake up to the sound of bleating goats
who teach us how to kill the nearing wolf and cut the fox’s throat.

we remember where to find love and dreams:
where we are. Here, where we and we’s who went marked X.

when we choose life by all pain necessary,
we mark X
and we repeat to not forget:
in between words and Worlds,
Malcolm lives.
Malcolms live.