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i’m on a hiatus for psalms
between my guardian & i is a chasm. the type that reckons you as rebellious, dwindling in revolt. early morning, our lips resurrect to a tempest, babbling arrows buffeting thunders. i don't know if that's how a florist tends a flower; how a gardener whittles the hedge of a plant to create a rhythm—a well-trimmed frontline, magneting eyes. neither do i know how a lad is stretched to stripling, & then, to adulthood. here, i only know the psalm of abuse. here, the only ode is a receding of insult. instead of pillows, my guardian uses a slab, nets it on my nape & calls it discipline. yet, that same night, cracks open— like an egg—a psalm with my name. but those nights, sleep always outwits these psalms & fills my eyes with the night's sonorous music. at least, it's the way it ought to be. at least, this poem is meant to tell how the two of us are crossroads, same with our own singing.