in the midst of his absence
grows a question
what lamp is lit from within the heart?
not the one he could detect
she coded her language
with sounds from a sacred river
but he heard profanity
so they had been taught the
exact same colonial language
the byproduct of colonialism
somehow the mirrors she held up
to his reflection
looked like abstract confusion
temples of common worship
felt like prisons
with whom was he supposed to identify?
nobody could offer him freedom
he knew he was his one and only liberator
first and foremost during any trapping
of any oppression
she intended to hold up mirrors
that softened his quiet, sometimes near deadly
blows of self hatred
self inflicted
ever so contradicted
by pretty philosophies
gathered in the corners of his
mind, gathering cobwebs
of neglect.
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