Monocultural Haze

a short leash
pressed arteries
that once choked me
i so couldn’t think
a river of submission
i granted permission to
when i was blind and three
and children
gather on my diaphragm

to play hide and seek
dizzy and vomiting
on the carousel
of the status quo
i harvest them
from scalding metal frames
cauterizing skinned knees

and speak their real names
in the wake of burning fields
my flint and steel
sets us free
True art is not always comfortable and never a democracy. It is a mirror to the hidden corners, the dust you cannot see. It is metaphor and analogy with an internal locus that abhors parroting. I have only slightly pricked my finger on the spinning wheel of that tapestry.

M.G. Iannucci 2020

Art: “Night Hill” by Andrea Kowch

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