There are songs that chose which throats to come out of;
there are chests curved into streams by meandering names of their children.
We are songs written on the breath of our mothers.
But sometimes our composer fathers do not get to sing out our names;
the dust rest on their bodies before their souls get to speak, or
their feet walk them away from home before they learn how to stay and rehearse.
Some of us are songs misplaced in certain mouths.
To some, it is seen as plagiarism when they are told the children they raised are not theirs.
Children wonder if they should be coming out of their father’s mouths;
bastard children are cover songs, sang by those who learn to stay and say other people’s verses;
some, if not most songs, are better sung by one who didn’t compose them.
(Other artists do not know how to appreciate their art…)
These songs hold tight above their father’s
tongues like pallets;
we know they are there, but sometimes never to make it out of those mouths…
These songs feel like a note still held
in the womb
(And) forgotten by the lips of their fathers.
But do not feel worthless when you are
your father’s silence.
You are the gold becoming rare
on the surface of shallow throats.
Your mother is a dj scratching sharp knives to draw her fingerprints;
her sleepless nights put you to bed peacefully;
her hands sing you lullabies that learnt how to close a baby’s eyes;
her warm blankets cover you from cold silence.
This world is a place meant for music
But there are fathers having teeth tied together
by an unused condom.
boys who wish to hold onto
their own music
to bring life into their voices
and not in a world they don’t know
how to sing in.
I have seen family dinner tables
bring silence in a house,
(Only) for its neck to be chopped off
by the question: “who is my father?”
And other questions to make us wonder if we are in our biological family albums.
There are songs that never got to choose which throats to come out of…
There is a family album with songs that do not feel at home.