I always feel like
There’s’ no privacy.
Eyes watch the masked warrior, school satchel as his sword. Their ears tapped to hear the whispers beneath the company of horns, piano, bass, drums, trumpets and saxophones that play complex hymns of resistance and liberation. Close arms twist and betray their hero.
I cover him with the word, “Daddy”, my embrace wanting to shield him from the threat of the watching yellow beast, from the danger that lurks inside its belly, from the invaders who come for him and leave us to live in dreams and screams.
Watching. The bottle brush tree stands proud and tall as it weeps blood at the front door.