[redacted people]

we have chosen to believe in magic:
now you see people, now you don’t see people.
the black
of zipped bags, of ink blots,
of stats in the paper
cover those we carefully-redacted
who, unlooking, we’ve chosen to unsee
in these rorschach plots,
these sad, these mad, these bad,
these stick figures daring to accuse eyes at us,
these constellations of darknesses
in burdensome dances of presence
upon spotless minds,
vitally here,
not taking a hint,
not beautiful,
not blending in,
not silent,
not fitting new graphs
not telegenic in life or death.
we live and let burn. problem solved.
sweep ashes off the spotless
because vision is too hard,
oily hands on white shoes too hard,
beggar songs staining polished stradivariuses too hard,
democracy of emancipation too hard,
and fighting for our soul,
is too hard,
because sentries have families too,
and so decide to go home,
and piles of the crossed out, plus us, are easier if the answer is zero,
and sand stilts on the beach raise us above tides of contagion, for a day.
who is my neighbor?
we wake in deleted light
to plaintive cries that never stopped.
we have discarded ourselves too.
and all you see is the brotherhood of the landfill
because you never left,
dear King-for-a-day.

© Tolu Oloruntoba
1.23 am, October 26, 2014