#327
Nurture And Ash {ℵ 2 of 2}
II. The Language of the Drum ℵ
Across the sea, the plaster splits like bone in rooms where dampness gathers at the sill.
A single bulb hangs naked from the wire, casting a yellow grease upon the floor where another boy sits rigid on the pine, his spine pulled straight against the cold bare wall.
Above the box, pinned lopsided and dark, a blurred dictator stares down from a frame—Stern-jawed, enveloped in a somber coat, a silent witness to the child’s gaze.
The television does not hum with rain nor count the stones along a friendly street; Its speaker rattles with a military drum, a harsh, metallic rasp of marching boots.
Upon the flickering grey, the puppets step, not clad in fur, but stitched in coarse fatigue.
Small wooden hands hold painted wooden stocks, and plastic eyes stare forward into dust.
They do not speak of honey or the sun; They chant of ash, of blood upon the sand, of small hands fitted to the trigger-guard before the hand is wide enough to plow.
The boy sits mute, his dark eyes absorbing the steady poison poured into the ear—He has no measure for the things he sees, no map to tell the truth from holy fire.
They give him hatred as his daily bread, and wrap his youth in banners for the grave, stealing his mercy ere he knows its name, and calling it a virtue to be burned.
— Aleph {ℵ}, The Scribe R. Surdykowski