Little Perpetrator (3)
From the watchtower, you utter the suburbs
I grow up in, ripe for the benefit of
whiteness. A city hunched around the island.
The prison within earshot of my bedroom,
curtains shut. None safe, houses circle
the bay. I have been in hiding from my
given tongue. You, the warden with a job
waiting for me down in the hole, diploma
cut up into a crown. Tasks include:
electricity, genitals, offering
free cries for help. My people have a history
of compliance & porcelain dogs.
The prison at my throat. It’s not enough
to want to strangle you with shoelaces.