by Yahia Lababidi.
Can we ever write about matters
that we cannot speak of
the thing or two that determine
who we are and what we do
When can we hint at the harm
we’ve hardly survived
the realization that our allure
is due to deformity
Sure, we confess in code
here, there and everywhere
beneath our breaths
and over their heads
But when can we ever speak,
plainly, of our obscene pain
to whom and how might we
unburden ourselves, artlessly
The answer might be never
whispers art, to which we owe all
—our masks, wisdom and lives—
only transformation will set us free.