Leonell Echa

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Mamma used to lie in every story she told us
“Us” was bones so she needed flesh on us
And flesh on us was what my aunty called growing up-
When your manhood could differentiate planting a seed from growing a crop.

Growing a crop meant little minds were put dead-
‘Put dead’, another couple my uncle believed made you humble.
When at breakfast tea wouldn't meet bread
Because nobody cared or dared to grumble.

So fire burns as a reflection of hell
And at dawn, the wetness of the dew fresh like paradise
And if at Christmas no clothes came home, the clothe seller had no more to sell
So excuses from mamma made us form a compound-‘ex-use’; not needed, so no surprise(s) .

Papa always told the truth in every story he told us
To him ‘Us’ were flesh and our ages were bones
So whether we screamed or signaled in low tones
Papa was fluid so our gimmicks were porous.

His wisdom made his scalp white to his beards
And in all his chess stories the king is always feared
But the day he decided to lie
The clothe-seller could sell but papa couldn’t buy.

So fire burns to cook that meat
And at dawn the wetness of the morning dew makes you greet
And if at Christmas no new clothes came home
Papa’s grays left with his comb.

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