The children are
abstractions, shadows of unknown
things, trailing splintering
bones on patchwork roads
threadbare from the restless tread of calloused feet.
The children are dreamers
planting gleaming glass palaces
on lunar planes, stalling the rot
of their sour breath, the
pop of their knees, the
knell of their bodies
giving out, failing
giving out, falling—
first down the stairs, then headlong
into the open mouth of a grave.
They weep silent
tears for the aches they cannot name, burning
homes, books, each other,
any vessel that cradles the
wretched hopelessness of humanity.
Sometimes, the only mark we
leave behind is wear. We must remember
the lines on our skin are perennial
rings marking the bodies we’ve lived in.
Remember, the tear of the fabric is only
fibre giving way to the leavening of our flesh, of
bodies taking up space to prove they’re still alive.
Because hopeless humans are still humans.
Because aching bodies are still bodies, if
Shadows of the things they
refused to name.
About the Author:
Augustine Tashinga Mudzudza is a writer from Zimbabwe. His work appears in Brittle Paper Magazine and has been shortlisted for the Carnelian Heart Short Fiction Prize. He is an alum of the Idembeka and Caine Prize workshops for creative writing.