History disrupted
The Singer machine
my mother’s hands
the bobbin the pedal
frayed threads on denim
her eyes tiny buttons
unseeing beyond
metres and metres
just to sew me
a clean life of ink and
cloistered hallways
where dead white males
ghost through all ages:
Banquo’s looking glass
a modern ermine trail
of blue-tinged pale kings
to the last of days…
lest you forget we own this land
our father his father and his
before were here already
carved and divided
so if you want a patch
to seed your hopes
better prick your thumbs woman
back to the needle the whirr
only from your blood
dusk-hollowed
husk-nourished
your child will fatten
outgrow this box
stealth across barriers
purloin sceptres
and disrupt history.