All Roads are Mothers
We came over, not on the boats, but underwater, swimmingly
along the shipping lanes. Thorns and honey in our apron. Nails
from Christ’ palm for a rusty compass that never fails us.
Learnt our English in one breath, rusty like the nails that taught us,
like blades. That cut then infect. Pushed to or jumped… under the water,
with one breath, held long enough to build your roads and railways,
your high-rises, your hospitals. One hand tied behind our back,
your prison wings, your submarines, we came over to nurse your kids,
care for your elderly, to be given scraps from the table of your gang-masters;
to collect the most English of strawberries, in the rain and the wind,
sweep your streets. Turn them into mothers.
All roads are our roads. With a temporary leave to remain
we lean into the wind to rest our wings.