Of language and order.

They took his tongue
the day my father died.
Declared it an act; a rite.

Soon they called me
daughter, my child, nnana-girl.
But their hands, still, were not his.

They didn't have scarred wrists
from being pulled behind
horse mounted militia.

They had fingerprints;
unlike his fingers rubbed smooth
by tailor made hollows of sanctuary.

They didn't know the bitterness
of the hot, angry earth under
a rubber sole stamped face.

Theirs didn't have the shiny oblong mark
from forbidden sticky hot caramel made
one midnight to chase sorrow at a secret feast.

Theirs didn't smell of camphor.
Their didn't know where to rub out my sadness.
Theirs didn't know the rhymes of the summer winds.

I never got to hear my father's voice;
just his words which felt blunted
against their corn yellow smiles.
They took my father's tongue
and turned it into a letter opener.

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead.

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