This one is for the unconsoled

MotherIt is for the migrant, the womb-less, the borderless, the refugee

It is for the relentless,
the transient,
willing or unwilling.
It is for you;
the hustlers of belonging,
feeling the land beneath you moving
contrary to your body
or perhaps your better judgement.

 It is for those now looking at borders or a people

and never being able to entirely say “this is of me.”

It is for your lack of a recognised identity.
It is for all of your identities.
It is for their discovery, it is for their robbery.

This is for your blank stare in the face of “you should-s and you ought-s.”
It is for your patience in atrocity
and for your revolt in expectations of conformity.
It is for you relying on you, to be you,
to search, to find, to remember you.
It is for the ephemeral existence, rootless and exhausted.
It is for the yearning, burning and the endless explaining.
It is for the courage it takes to find it all inspiring.
Chosen or forced; it is for the ignition of a match,
shedding light on epiphanies housed in the periphery.
in the end, it brings an untrodden story,
in the end, it unveils all the crackling fables,
in the end,
it is for Kerouac
for the “fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
This one is for those who are negotiating the need to belong.
Flaming and blistering innately.
This one is for the unconsoled.

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