shingles,
eye sores.
Avert the gaze,
make nice with talk, talk.
Atlas,
slave,
shrugs the melting icecap
from bicep
to toe.
We only wish
our ancient promise.
Not the promise
of father to son.
Not the promise
of land to land.
Not the promise of a new world,
scepter to skull.
Antigone
asks for justice
laid open,
ajar.
Toe to toe.
Dead for dead.
Justice for what is.
She, the grave,
the cacophony of voices,
only asks for what is real:
Recognition.
Our lives,
undertow.
Our faces,
reflected
in whatever wave takes us.
Our skin,
like shingles -
exfoliating,
enshrines justice.
Promise
is our skin.