Sheep-counters, camel-conquerors, gods-over-
seed-planters, grape-stompers, shawl-weavers,
sealed-secret-keepers, border-crossers –
childhood was such a blast.
But if one evening now, as you light a farthing rushlight
under the fly-sheet of your present tent, darker memories
surface, please Dad, don’t blame us for the wine. We had
no choice, no seed but yours.
Your offspring grow in utero no longer. Our sons,
our half-brothers whittle arrows, murder birds, thunder.
Can you see sheet-lightning on your boundary hill?
The crops fail over here and the vines spoil.
We still wear those shawls,
but they’re unravelling.