They came on ships
With horses and gunpowder they stole from the neighbours.
They stood in rows of red,
fresh wounds carved into our backs with garden rakes.
They made us serve them on our dining tables
With forks made of braided veins and splintered bone.
(They didn’t know we ate with our hands).
They strangled us with collars,
Turned us into their guard dogs
And set us loose against each other.
They split our house down the middle with a pen.
Its ink
Was my grandfather’s blood.
How easy it was for them
To put a hand into our home
And pull out the honeycomb, still sticky with our pride and will and gold.
It is no wonder
The bees learned how to sting.
– I wish we had learned too.
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