To the Broken Ones

You were not taught many things about love

your father was a drunk who wore his heart on his fist

as he laid his love upon your mother’s brown skin until it turned black

she stayed, there was no going back

black skin was made to withstand pain and crack

she glowed with the healing power of ‘Abuba Eke’

the python’s fat that trickled down her skin

the oil your fingers took to the parts of her body

where her shaky fingers would not reach

you were not taught too many things about music

but your mother screamed out sad melodies

as she called upon her ancestors

you sang with her as a boy

sometimes alone into your pillow at night

you became her ancestor when you were old enough to hold a knife

when your father’s blood trickled down your hands

and the neighbors praised your bravery

they said it was a good thing you looked like your mother

you visit your father sometimes in prison

not to give him a reason to live

but to listen to him sing you some tearful apology

maybe it will fix your broken

give you a reason to breathe

you were not taught the right way to be a man

but you never wanted to be your father

so when your palm traveled across the face of the one you love

you knew you only needed a mirror to see your father

*Published in January 2020 on Active Muse

*Nominated for the 2020 Sundress Best of the Net Prize