New poetry from our poet-in-res, Remi Graves.
In the cracks between dawn and awake
I dreamagine the kind of school
my children’s children might frequent
moss covered buildings with solar
panel roofs, housing teachers unburdened
by the urge to expel Kojo but chastise Dave.
The corridors are safehaven runways
for the kids who want to vogue,
shimmy or slouch their way to lunch
at breaktime teenagers compete
for the title of consent queen/king/person
trading facts about freedom and respect
how bodies can only ever be owned
by the souls renting space inside them
and that shame is a lost language
spoken by the ones who came before.
In history class Mx Williams
paints a real portrait of Britain’s past
blood red and unrepentant.
Opens windows onto lessons
that will stand the future in good stead.
The child walks home and kisses the trees
in thanks of their silent work,
sings songs to Mother Earth,
dances in reverence of the rain
or cries full of feeling at moonrise and sunsets
asks me time and again to tell
stories of the lost era
with its plague of red ants
strewn across the minds of the many,
sick with believing
that their worth and wealth
were blood relatives.
I open my eyes
to find my hands clasped in prayer,
in the cracks between dawn and awake.