Covid Music

The wail of the ambulance

is white with the speed of wings

that are the opening and closing

of eyelashes. A wavelength

unspooled by a conductor

in a coat of eggshells.

The magical spinning

of a light in a window.

Scarlet lungs.

But the skin of the world

is beaten blue by clowns

with batons. Their grins

stretched across the faces

of scared children as the streets

fill with the longing to remove

these stones in the throat.

To sing the living, breathing

colours of tomorrow.

Not the grey chains of those

who bought their plinths

by selling humans

into sailing coffins.

This history of green fields

and great men is a lie

branded on to the chests

of those who in the long days

of quarantine have been

the heroes in the hospitals,

the ones who saved your life,

and will not be clapped back

into black boxes. Blind silence.

Eight Minutes

The streets are on fire

with an anger that sits

in the throats of the silenced.

Shattered glass,

pepper spray tongues.

The words contagious

as they lick

along the skin.

A house so white

its fiddler has injected bleach

into the veins of a nation.

Poison behind the masks.

A police officer kneeling

on the neck of a black man.

How much murder can they

expect to get away with?