he certainly looks a superhero,
defined in blocks of
masculine warmth and prowess
all wrapped up in demerara skin and eyes
but it’s not so dramatic
the way he holds his hand out to
cradle me in my fear
I shine a light to the sky when
I see a burning building in the mist
and he arrives on time
gently turning my face to the present
a flame in the oven
does not mean the building burns”.
I don’t know whether to
call you brother or father
or both,
or neither.


my comrade in doubt and kindness,
I channel strength to you and from you.
your beautiful soul hurts, I
know it does, yet you
are the fireman hero
jumping into the fire despite the
smoke already bleeding in your lungs.
you are the human hero,
you are.
but this does not mean
that you must never be weak.
be weak, my friend
because you can
because you are strong
because you have me and us to
cradle your mind as
you have cradled mine and ours.
we survive always
you help me heal my burns
I see yours itching for ointment.
your kindness could
never be contained by pain.
expand and
let’s let go
and be the
embracing heroes
that our children
always wanted to hold onto.



the hot
white room
still tingling
with newness
paint and lino the same
is not the
friendliest place
to cast a glance
but somehow here
us strangers
freely see
our souls and sufferances
reflected in the walls
somehow here
strangers are my kin
of the aces and queens I
hold so tightly
locked to my chest
and though I avoid
the shocking blues
and greens of my friends
and lovers,
our brown
unknown eyes
meet in comfort
not breaking as we
would outside
in the world
we call real

what a strange
and hot room
this is.